The Unremarkable Death Of Harry Potter
by Brandschlag
Summary: Inevitable, people call the act of dying. Some seem rather afraid of it. Harry Potter isn't. Aged, wrinkled and stubborn to boot, Harry Potter insists to end it on his terms. And it all begins with a simple song and a rather thrilling idea of suicide - This is catharsis. (1POV, AU-Post-Hogwarts, MoD Harry, Alternative MoD-Concept)


**The Unremarkable Death Of Harry Potter**

A Fanfiction based on J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter,

(Part of the 'Banality of Evil' Series, Sequel to "Of Insanity And Its Wand")

Translations for anything not English can be found on the bottom.

I feel the need to point out that this story is a oneshot.  
Splitting it up into multiple chapters would take something away from the way the story is told.

Enjoy reading :)

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"Eine Heerschar von Hexen zum Aderlass geprügelt für die Reinheit des Blutes [...]," the song went and I hummed to its tune.

It was one of these years, where day crosses to night just as the night then crosses to day without much in between to fill these endless hours of martyr and boredom.

You know, the sort of year which, when you look back, you can't rightly say what all has happened to fill it. The sort of year where you can find yourself wondering if all this you have been doing has had any worth to it.

It was in this sort of year, in one such a friday night and for these and many more reasons, that I found myself enticed and entertained by the idea of ending it all.

Oh mind you, before you exclaim in shock what a fool I was, not the suicide by which the blood gushes from some open wound I have sliced and diced into my body, or, for the more clinical and less hardened under us, where I would have dragged my wand upon my veins to cut them open with numbed pain and proper precision.

Or, if I wouldn't want to make a mess: where I would stand upon a small taboret, a sling of thick and rough rope laid around my neck, and I would seesaw from left to right until my movement would give in to the consequence that came naturally to physics, and I would be strung up by my neck, and all the life's miserable thoughts would flood me, and I would maybe think for a second of what a mistake this might have been, and then, a last flap from and with my feet, and it would be over.

I wonder though, is it not most curious how frowned upon this matter of suicide is in the minds and mouths of people? Not just in this day and age, mind you. Indeed it had been that way no matter how hard I try to remember. And I had never quite found it in me to understand people's fixation of tabooing the idea of suicide. Never did, I say, and never will.

In truth, all this arguing of morals and religion over the matter of someone's death birthed some intrinsic stubborness in me. What did I care if the chosen death of someone went against another's religion?

Nobody of healthy and of sound mind, I was convinced, was in need of some permission from religion, land, family or friends to take this matter of death into their own hands. For, if you looked deep enough, there was the remote chance that every step would bring you upon some unceasing pain within this one or the next. What right then did people claim to have to prevent someone's suicide? I see none. Truth be told, I had little cause to think different, for I too was inflicted with this idea.

Still, - and no, as I said, it was not this sort of suicide where life suddenly ends and you couldn't be sure what comes after, or in between this state of life and death. (Although, admittedly, I as one of these privileged beings that held magic certainly knew there to be something after death…).

Yes, as I said, I was not taken with the idea of cutting myself open to escape this surreal world with the tastes of prophecy that I still could savour on my tongue. This sort of suicide, I found stupid, not cowardly but bootless and void of much sense beyond the end. There was no meaning to it, you see, and my death, I thought, should have at least some of it.

Instead of this suicide that would make a mess of my end, I was taken with being the master, the director of this mine last play. It would be a stage for some heroic act upon which I would act and direct it myself. Or, to make it short: I was perusing the thoughts of what you might commonly refer to as: going out with a grand finale.

There, I have said it and it feels refreshing, does it not? To me, it is. You, certainly, musn't share this enthusiasm with me, that is your right. But I, and for who I am, dare to think that I might enjoy this last act of differentness.

Those: the people that would come to clean up after me, they could dress me up, patch colour into my face and make me smile a wretched smile with my dead face, and yet, before all of that, before the people would go on and on and on about how a good person I had been, and all the other utter lies, before they would carry my dead body in a casket to the tomb they would parade me with, before all of that I would make my death my own. I would make my end's reason exist only for me. It would be my last rebellion against all that had been established in my world.

Yes! My death would be my own. An endeavor worthy of the life I would be leaving behind, I would think!

For a short moment, half the day before at most, I had entertained the idea of utterly ruining myself firstly, before I would step ahead and meet my end without grand farfare, but the idea of social suicide seemed oddly … unsatisfying.

You know this type of death where all suddenly point their fingers at you for something you have done or have not found in yourself to do, this sort of thing where your standing is taken, your children gone, your wife in the bed of another, where your job and your all life's work is done and gone with the wind! Yes, this sort of suicide, and I was thinking quite a bit about it, truth be told.

The idea was entertaining, to the say the least, but it didn't hold the quality I was wishing for, aside of the very blaring and very obvious lack of things that could be taken from me. All I had left still was my good name to me, indeed.

Instead I found myself imagining my end, in different ways, with an eye for details, as if I was planning out the grandest of all stage plays, and it would have had everything, just as much as I desired it all to be there when I would kill myself before all these people fawning and gawking over the name of Harry Potter.

But to return to the issue with this sort of suicide, and there, like with all things that suddenly and rather forcefully end things, is always some sort of issue.

It was in this a night of utter boredom that I got up to walk around my old bones at least a few steps in hopes of finding some resemblance of tiredness to quake these thoughts that lingered like thick pavement upon my mind.

These thoughts that kept revolving around the suicide and the things connected to it, for it was a topic that kept with me, and it followed me wherever I went.

Once before, they even had followed me when I was just walking the street down from where my house was, you know, and I came upon our cemetery where my mother and father, and the rest of the lot has found their resting place, and, despite all this knowledge about mortality and all such some stuff, and the principle of living in the here and now, - well I knew what would come after my demise, and I wasn't afraid, and yet, when I came upon this cemetery where a burial was being held, I suddenly found myself confronted with a new string of thoughts, and it was decidedly connected to the ideas of suicide.

What would I want my last words to be, I asked myself when I came upon this scene of utter despair, of weeping faces and tears streaming down, and I thought to myself, Harry, I thought, what would you hope to be these last words, if there's nobody to listen to you?

But I discarded these thoughts immediately for I had still a bit of living family and they had me, for better or for worse.

No, I thought again, I would have someone there to listen to my final and verbal epitaph, I would have someone listen to these finely crafted words that I would bring out of my throat with my last life's breath and I would make these words something grand and important, something people would pay for to listen to.

It would be maybe, like the gallows humour of those who are about to be executed, even if, admittedly, this sort of capital punishment has been long since gone and merely resides in the heads of those who remember and in these detailed books that propagate the history from a very one sided perspective, or it would be something hardened, something of the likes the good Adorno would strafe me for.

Yes, maybe I would recite one such a passage, like when he spoke of hardness, and I would surely find a way to make some absurd joke out of it.

Maybe I would make a quip at the weather, or like a fool gibber something incomprehensible with the laugh of a madman upon my lips, making them all wonder what I meant for years to come - yes, maybe of the likes Dumbledore's first words to me had been, "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

But, so it came to me, what if I suddenly died and nobody had yet time to listen to these words I wanted to have said, what if I suddenly were to find myself bereft of all that made me Harry Potter, and I suddenly was less than a man, more of a husk, kept alive by the mere magical functions entertaining my still-beating heart, and nothing of the sort like a soul was remaining in me where these words of reckoning could then come from?

No, I thought, I would need to prepare my death and the words to it then, something that would have the world's people hold their breaths, something where the day bows to the night, for just that grand would it be when I finally then fall into the pit and they put earth upon my head.

I would want this death of mine to be an event, an advent even, one where I was going to be the star of the night, the king of all kings in this very short span of time, where all and nothing mattered once the night was gone and the next day would dawn to carry away all these things that I would have left behind, and the people would go about their lives, and I would have my final rest in my casket, without a thing to worry about.

Would that not be grand, I thought, and yes, I was convinced, it would be grand, and I would make it happen.

I know, I know! This? It is the confusing sort of thoughts, is it not? These thoughts linger around the matter of death so much that it may become confusing how me these moments of depression still escape as something normal, something I would want to plan out in all its details. But, therein lies the key, methinks. These thoughts are nothing more than thoughts until, very carefully, they become the planned and executed reality of which dreams have been haunting me with rebellious continuity. A reality in which myself is nothing more than a shadow of a day gone by after a night of blazing life and pleasure, whereafter then I would fall into my grave like the useless body that I am.

You see, death never held a frightensome quality to me, not since I had walked to my very own once before already, but that wasn't the sole reason not to think in fear of this state of existence in which all that made Harry Potter the very same, would cease to exist and become nothing more than a flighty memory in the heads of fleshy bags of blood and bones.

There then, in the dark of my living room and to the tune of Konstantin Wecker, I almost jumped with happiness upon spotting my wand with its knobby wood and its white handle laying atop an open book.

I made to pick it up, and quite absently read:

PROLOGUE

The music went, "Immer noch werden Hexen verbrannt auf den Scheitern der Ideologie, irgendwer ist immer der Böse im Land," and I continued to hum its tune, now with a wand in my hand to direct the song on my own.

The song was old and worse still, in German. And yet I listened to it. It kept the silence away and it made me busy with myself. And I too enjoyed it, as it was as old as I myself.

Once I had calmed myself and the song was done, I entertained the idea of walking to my bed and to catch a few hours of sleep until I would set about making do with my plan, but then I decided better: why wait and sleep if this night of wonders seemed to hold some special quality to it that it allowed me to achieve something I had yet to achieve?

I could find no reason to abstain from setting about and so I went ahead, did my hygiene and shaved my poor and wrinkly face clean, and I took my thick glasses, as with all things that come with age, the bad eyes are with some of the worse parts, and I dressed myself properly, with fine but old-cut trousers of black wool, a proper black shirt to it, and over it my favorite ashen and black overcoat, and then, because I knew the weather of these days to be the rainy sort, I took my hat and my cane too.

And then I was out, my hard soles making sounds upon the stones of the street as I walked through the dark, breathing in the cold and damp air.

Lengthy strides but in a leisurely manner carried my feet upon the wet gravel and then over to the cobblestone of the street behind mine, and there I traversed underneath the glowing signs with bright-lit colours the path before closed shops and their well presented windows, and I found myself not caring but still staring at their wares, for it was this no-maj sort of stuff that had changed so much in these recent years since I had last bothered to actively live among them, that it was unlikely I would find myself understand much of what I saw.

But, so I noted, there seemed yet again such a timely trend that returned every few decades, to revive, out of feelings of nostalgia or maybe even just with the idea of making pretty coin in mind, some stuffs from days long gone.

But I remembered all these days with a clarity that belied my age, and I remembered living through these days like a burning torch of life stuffed into a dark room, and I had been flaming away bright and hot and high for the greatest of all goods, and now, there, seeing these things of the past again, I found myself suddenly wistful at how I had wasted my youth with these things.

Surely, only to me now it seemed like a waste of time, rebuilding Magical Britain, attending to these needs of the people that felt only safe when Harry Potter was with them in their Ministry,- to the people though it must have been of utter importance, for they, at least the most of them, were of one world and not of both, like I had been.

Yet I could not think of any reason, as an afterthought to all that has happened since then, for me having done this. Had I really been the only one capable of doing so? Was this Harry Potter that I was, so utterly unique to the Wizarding Britain that they could not have existed without my hands work giving them hope?

But I lost that train of thinking once I came upon a small shop that still had some people slave away in them. I stopped my feet and leaned heavily on my cane, and in a moment of indecisive thinking I went inside, and ordered myself a warm drink that I could sip away on when I would continue wandering this night in hopes of finding my own tomorrow.

The cashier was a tired looking girl, younger, I would say, than Teddy's brood, and she smiled at me the smile that was only reserved for these old people you would look at not with pity but maybe with the knowledge that they had nobody else to turn to for their attention, or maybe, you would do smile this smile at these old people who reminded you of your own grandparents.

The memory of when I had last been looked at with that type of heartfelt felicity, hidden underneath her tired and slumber-seeking face, something that I once dared to think would be natural to all parents when they reach a certain age, and become grandparents too, it eluded me and for the sake of my continued mental well-being I forwent thinking harshly of my Teddy and his own brood for not showing me this kind of smile.

I took it in stride, and paid the price, thanking her with a kind smile, wishing for a

well-earned rest after her work before I went back to stroll my ways through London's night, cane in my right and warm drink in my left hand.

At least, so I thought to myself, I had reached close to the centennial age well above the day I had thought I would die there at Hogwarts, without the further ailments that came with old age, aside of my quite bad eyesight - but that I had been accustomed to since early age on, and I dare to think I would be thinking differently of the matters of suicide and all that lot if I had a prostate the size of my bony fist, the gout of one of these people who've indulged once too often with their red meat, and I dare to think I would be thinking altogether differently of the matter of life and death if I was not still as healthy and spry for someone of my age.

Instead of enjoying the quiet of the night with the occasional dribble of rain hitting the already wet earth, I found my thoughts again adrift, and this time they returned to the matter of my family and myself.

Though it would be more accurate to say, they lingered with Teddy, and the already mentioned lack of affection I felt myself on the receiving end on, and his children too, were of this sort.

I found myself thinking if this, in all its ways, was not my fault?

A question worth posing, is it not?

I found myself thinking that if not parents, so me too, in their ways of raising children established themselves as some sort of odious dictator, - perpetrators even.

Was parental love then in consequence some illusion, much like the established concept of romantic love itself of which I have felt myself bereft since the day I had entered this bond of monogamy with my brittle wife? (But that was food for thought for another day or two.)

Parents, I thought, did attempt to mould their children into some form of their own choosing, and without consideration for what is and would be best for this one child, and I thought it to be an act of force that would, at any rate, and will at least from these sort of children with a strong sense of Ego, be met with fierce fights.

And rightly so!

I understood that this in itself was proof enough to reconsider. But not all thought like I did, that I knew as well. Continuing the tradition, children would still, today and the day after and so on and on, be forced, punished and then reeducated, until they would fit this role of the proper specimen to the society of their parents, and this would still be a crime against Ego, I thought, for it breaks away whatever opportunity the children may have had to develop a unique sort of character for the sake of something inhuman, without a soul or life on its own.

This brought me to pose one more question to myself: had I given my son all the tools needed to perform this work on his own character, to grow it and raise it properly as it was to be done, or had I given him a form he was to shape himself into? Was I then in turn responsible for this lack of love from my child?

I attempted to gather these memories of the days in which I had raised Teddy, and I found nothing but the positive pictures in my mind I would often think with a certain sense of longing of.

These memories in which Teddy would run into my arms to cuddle to my chest while his hairs would flash through colours upon colours, or, which quite often had happened too, where he would come to me upon finding himself hurt or frightened, and he would seek out me and only me to give him comfort.

Had I created myself an illusion of a content past to hide away the idea that I myself had been the faulty part of the family?

And I felt, very suddenly, at these thoughts my heart make a jump.

But it was a jump of fright and not of joy or love or some such stuff and I had to clutch harder to my cane at the thought that I had created this mine own personal hell of coldness and hardness where one day's like the next and the one before that too.

Had I created this my own reality in which only the people I met upon my duties would greet me with some sort of professional affection, more so for my name than for my self?

It was a disturbing dimension of thoughts and it was frightening to think of it, truth be told, for this thinking revealed me my past to be some sort of quixotic monstrum. And it had taken me this long to come and find it hiding in my shadows!

Then a feeling of felicity overcame me. And it was joined by the warming thoughts of my grand finale. They pushed away the fright, and I found myself engulfed by it, - I found resolution and solace in the feeling and these thoughts too, that I still had something to live for that truly required me to exist, even if it was just the assassination of my own self, carefully planned, and well thought-out by and for myself.

My death would be a gift to myself, I decided there and then, and I would make it the grandest of all my gifts, the one that would cleanse away all that was dirty, bitter and wrong with me.

When I came upon the crossing at which, I remembered, a decade ago still a bakery to be, I stood still as if I was waiting for the roads to clear for me to pass over them. Yet there were no vehicles trespassing on these quiet paths the night had offered me to walk upon, and I merely stood there waiting for an inkling of an idea to spring to my mind.

I sipped on my drink and played absently with my cane, every so often craning my head left and right as if to check for a vehicle to come.

For just a second I entertained the idea of stepping in front of one such a vehicle, but then I discarded the thought immediately.

No, that wouldn't do, I thought.

And then I wondered: did other people too often or less frequent as I, have in them these thoughts of suddenly doing something utterly stupid?

For example, these people who drive their modern cars - at least these people who, for their own comfort of mind or because they enjoy doing so, drive on their own and not let these computers drive them, - do they too

sometimes then feel some sort of perverse idea of yanking their steering-wheel to the side?

Do they entertain this destructive idea - urge, even? Or what about these impressive extreme athletes who, after years of hard-wrought training, climb mountains without safeguard! - Do these people then, now and then too, feel the urge, the idea crawl up to them like some perverse temptation, to let go of their iron-like grip and drop and topple down and see how it goes?

Do these people then too stand upon some sort of brink from which they gaze into the abyss of their own thoughts, and then, imagine all that could become of them if they were to do and give in to these thoughts of lingering temptation

Do they too then feel sick in their stomach, when they catch themselves thinking of it?

Well, I could say, based upon which I knew from the papers, that every so often it would indeed happen that some tragic accident takes place, and none knows how or why it came to be.

Certainly there is then merit with the idea that this then could have been one of these people gazing into their own abyss and the abyss, as Nietzsche had suggested, gazed back and they would then be swallowed by it.

But not for me, today, no I thought, I still had a bit to do before I would allow myself this final look beyond.

And so I emptied my now lukewarm drink and vanished the evidence.

Then, I returned to gander up and down this wet asphalt before me, where the light of the lanthorns would reflect in picturesque ways and draw my eyes for a second or so every now and then.

My thoughts were adrift not a little but quite enough for me to not feel bored by staying my feet and resting my old bones a bit. My thoughts lingered here and there, not forming any consent on what to think of and yet quite clear, had they some sort of structure to them.

They were a bit about spells I had created, and the magic I had to perform in my younger years and of how much I had grown ever since these days of which the children nowadays only learn a few words in their lessons, as if it had happened all that long ago already.

But, maybe it was the truth, that this battle of which I had fought many in my life, had been just one of the others and its importance had been lost to history, for all that remained where a few hardened old bones still alive and breathing their dusty air into the world, while waiting for the casket's flap to drop down on them.

But that was all just my speculation.

Before long my thoughts returned again to the magic of which I had dreamt when I was a mere teen.

These spells I had seen Dumbledore weave and heave against Voldemort, and the very same Dark Wizard then against me and my friends and comrades too -, and then of these days in which I had woven the very same I once dreamt of, and I felt the tingle in my hands that usually only came when I held the Elder Wand while performing these miracles of Dumbledorian and Merlinesque Nature. And not to forget, for though he was a madman, even Grindelwald was of this mould, but enough of these fantastical monsters of the past.

Instead, I thought for one crazen moment, that my death should contain something of this tingling, outlandish feeling of tantric might.

It was the good sort of feeling, and I wanted it with me and in me, knowing fully and well enough that it would not be forever, at least for these very last moments then, to remain with me and to hearten me on my last few steps over the bridge of life that carried all the weight of my soul to the tomb in which then I would find my eternal and hard-earned rest.

One second to the other, breaking my thoughts into brittle bits, I heard quiet laughter from the other side of the street, and when I looked up I saw a young couple, laughing merrily and ducked close to each other, in embrace or busy with a kiss or something of the sort.

I ignored the thought that they, at least from the distance, reminded me of myself and Ginny, instead my eyes followed where their steps had come from, and I found a small cast iron sign, in black and with cursive white letters upon it, and next to it, on the other side of the entrance hung a gas lantern like they had been used long long ago, or, much like it was used still up to this day in the Wizarding Britain's streets to light the way at night.

It cast its yellow light upon the blackened wooden door with small painted glass in the middle. Inside, so I saw from the distance, was still some person holding strong through the dark of the night.

I hesitated briefly, but then, gripping my cane, I strode over the street and walked over to the iron sign. I glanced up and there I read it:

FREUDENFEUER

I knew a bit German, for sure, as it came with the role in society where I had been part of the act that was to be put-upon for the international stage.

A smile here, a handshake there, a nod and a quip and a bow and some more of the lot, for the press and the politicians I, after the first few times, had no friendly words for the lot anymore. I had back then, quite early understood that I had not been made for this sort of political dance, and I had refused the concept of it, and then, altogether when Hermione had won the race over the seat of the Minister, I had discarded my political career as the failure that it was.

I didn't hesitate any longer. I walked into the shop, a bell announcing my entrance with clear and high tones, and with quick movements I took off my hat and propped up my cane upon my arm, smiling softly into the scarcely lit room. A quiet music was played, and I recognised the melody. I couldn't say where from I knew it, but it worked well with the atmosphere.

From somewhere deeper in the store I could hear the rustling of papers, and I could smell the smoke of freshly burnt tobacco lingering and a bit of a hint of an freshly brewed coffee too.

It was homely, I thought, and it reminded me of a few places of my youth. As I turned my head a bit, to see more of the room and to find a general layout of what I could find in this store, I spotted two more people perusing and browsing their night away.

There were racks on the walls with small chests, and crates and a few pictures with price tags on them, and there was, on the other side of the room, a hundreds of costumes of high quality and design, and above these wardrobes, mounted to the amber-coloured wall, were masks of any sort and design - some african, some I noticed, were chinese, and others I couldn't identify in their origin, but they were of the cruel and grim sort.

And next to them were wands and staves, and two crossed staffs,- swords, colourful feathers and brooms too mounted to the wall.

A tall mirror, it looked like some polished silver, was stood close to the wardrobes.

And there, above the counter, mounted to the dark ceiling, attached by invisible cords, hung a stuffed feathered creature with purple and black canine teeth growing out of its beak and black eyes and all the colours of the rainbow for its feathers. Around its long neck rested a gilden chain with the word Phoínix upon it. I could hardly believe my eyes when I spotted it.

It seemed, so my thoughts went, that this was one of these elusive stores where only the strange, the absconder and those of a certain artful quality came to do their shopping at, and I dared not to think which one of these categories I myself would belong to.

And my idea evinced itself as the truth, when I slowly walked past the man to my left, who, as the first of the two had sprang into my eyes because of the purple suit and the pointed hat he was wearing,- an outfit, so I decided, that would not have been out of place in the Wizarding Britain of my youth. Yet I knew it to be a trend from South Africa, as mentioned in one of the tabloids in the past weeks.

He stood with his back to me and seemed busying himself with his hands in a small crate of some sort.

The other man though was wholly normal and aside of his blonde almost white hair, I found him to be nobody I would have cared to look twice at if I had met him someplace else, and he too, seemed to care little for my presence. His head was buried in some book of which the title had been worn off from the hardcover.

"I see destiny has worked its wondrous ways to usher another weary traveller into my humble shop," a well-spoken voice announced with warm and honeyed tones from deeper in the shop and I felt myself beckoned to step up to the counter upon which I now could spot a man of ageless quality to be working.

And there then the vision of the man got clearer to me, and his face was clean shaven save for a thin mustache, weather-worn skin and a few old and healed scars marred his chin and cheek. He had brown eyes of the oddest brightness and long black hair with flecks of grey and silver, not unattractively so, fell to the left and right, framing his face properly. All in all, I noted, was he the sort of good looking fellow that gave the women of a certain age week knees.

"Destiny?" I countered. "I dare say my feet carried me the way."

Hardly could I believe destiny, of any sort, to have any say in what I do or nay-say to. But the man laughed simply as his hand went down to the wooden surface of the counter, and he slapped it once.

Then he leaned onto his forearms and came closer to my face, and as he there then stared at me, he said, "Well then, good Sir. What's it that your feet think yourself to be looking for?"

I took my hat from my hand and placed it on the counter, and next then my cane too, hanging its handle to the wooden edge. "Curiosity has brought me here."

"Curiosity," the man repeated with a grin. "And nothing more?"

It was a daring and brazen grin and I felt myself challenged. A younger me, maybe, would have taken him up on his challenge, but the me of now barely graced him with a thin smile for it.

The idea was nice of him, but I had mostly burnt out or rather buried this desire of my youth to stand atop and only atop, to prove myself, and not but to all the people but primely to me, that I was worth the salt of the legends that had been already woven to cling to my name.

Yes, dare I say it? I felt like Dumbledore must have felt, after he had been forced to leave his teacher's table and robes to meddle with the Grindelwaldian War, ending it with his bolshie grace. No matter, that all was the past.

The music in the background, I faintly took note of, rose to a crescendo.

With the grace that came to the old people naturally I waved his grin and suggestive words away and said, "For now, it is curiosity and that ought to be enough."

"Well," the man said grandly wherefrom he stood and he peered closely into my murky green eyes that were hidden behind that hideous thick glass I wore on my nose.

He stood up and straightened out his posture, and then he walked around his wooden counter without another word. As he came to stand next to me, he took my right arm into his and interlinked them. And with the same brazen quality he smiled as he proposed to me, "Shall I then show you my wares, good Sir? The night is long still, and I have much to offer."

His hand clapped to mine, and with a gentle tug I felt myself pulled forward and I fell into step with the man, heavily leaning into his arm as I had forgotten my cane at the counter.

We went alongside the wall right of the counter, where, to my surprise, I saw a door lead to another room. Had I so miscalculated the size of this building or was there magic afoot?

I couldn't say, for the man brought my attention to a small piece of fine and black polished marble, etched with artful craft to resemble some sort of dog. Instead, though, of the naturally occurring two pieces of eyes you would find with healthy examples of the canines, this one piece had one eye the size of half the head in its forehead.

He then forthwith explained it to be a unique piece he had, on his own travels some years ago, attained in the lands yonder the canal. Deutschland, he'd said. There was neither name nor price attached to it and then we already moved beyond this piece to the next one. And of course, to that one then he had a story too on hand. .

And as we walked about the wooden floor, slowly going our merry way towards the wardrobes, the man, convenient as it was in this situation, began to question my motif for entering this shop once more. He was very insistent in his choice of words to paint me a colourful idea in my mind with, making me think that indeed there might have been more than just my guts and feet at work when I had made my steps over the wet street to this store.

"So," said he as we came upon a small section in which more and more books seemed to pile into rows upon rows next to each other. "Have you come to accept that I indeed know better on this matter? That this, for you, must be destiny and not some casual chance?"

And he dared me again with his brazen grin, and instead of scoffing at him yet once more, I laughed quietly and shook my head as if to give my mind some impetus to throw away these lingering thoughts of fated things.

But they clung; like boiled tar clings to anything it comes into contact with, or instead, which admittedly had quite the equipollent quality: Peeve's ectoplasm. These ideas clung to my thoughts, always pulling me back to return to them with a frequency that was beyond denial, irritating.

The fatalistic idea that there was some sense or meaning to this my coming upon this shop, I perceived as strangely wrong. It alleged there to be some involvement of a very outlandish sense of unavoidableness, something along the lines of duty even. Though it was not the sort of inevitability that came as part of a logical or causalistic consequence, no. It also didn't seem like some sort of theological thing, - you know, the aspect of the divine, touch of god, angels directing my whims and actions, this sort of things - instead I thought he meant some concept of Karma, or maybe he, the man, meant that this my arrival here was fate in itself already. Much like birth and death are fated to people.

The weariness that conjured up these ideas of fate and destiny, that came usually at the end of the last moments of a life, - the weariness that asked for sense and meaning in life and attempted to find it wherever it could, was nothing more than some absurd and abstract idea in the heads of people, an elusion to fill this void that they had not been capable of filling in life.

These thoughts of fate and destiny, I felt, narrowed the world in its near endless size into small and artificial limits. Though, perhaps I should not be as severe with these things. I had been dead once already, and I had returned to life. I had seen my fair share of ghosts too.

Maybe, in this instance I could be wrong, and there indeed was something like fate, a divine touch, gods, God, Death, or a string of destiny that covered us all until we were woven into the endless carpet of time. I couldn't rightly disprove neither its existence nor give hard and reliable evidence that it was fabrication of the greatest sort. -

And then, suddenly, the door's bell chimed and I found my thoughts return to the books in front of me. The man, his hand moving from my own, craned his neck and with an apologetic tone asked, "If you would just excuse me for a second?"

I did, of course excuse him as indeed this was his shop and he had to make a living and not carry around some half-dead body like my own. I made myself grab onto the sturdy looking shelf and skimmed the titles of the bookbindings. And I shook my head upon what titles there were in these shelves - _Of Dogmen, Collars and Sixpacks_, and _On Reusing Old Graves_.

The wit these authors thought themselves capable of, I found myself not entertained by. Though I found _How To Die, A Beginners Guide_, to at least be a catchy phrase that would maybe be worth my time more than these books the new generations of exmatriculated students of Hogwarts had written.

There, with them, was only a repeat of a certain knowledge that had already been thought of a hundred years or so before my own time, and it seemed that little of new was being made or found out about in this heretofore magical and wondrous world. And, to return to this title, maybe too, I could learn how to walk these wet planes? Magic, so had Dumbledore once mentioned all these years ago, if I find myself remembering correctly, could be found in the strangest places.

Suddenly I heard laughter. I craned my neck, yet found no source of it.

I shook my head off these thoughts and returned to carefully stroking over the binders of these books to gauge their textures and qualities.

The shopman returned with hurried steps, and as he came to a halt next to me, he again offered me his arm.

"I am terribly sorry," said he with low tones. His eyes followed the movement of my hands alongside the binders and then, when I stepped back to accept his proffered arm, he continued to add, "A shop such as mine… It never runs itself, I'm afraid."

I found myself agreeing with him. The selection of items I had sampled as of then had given me a bit of an insight, but not much so.

Quite without thought asked I then, "What was the laughter about, if I may ask?"

The shopman looked strangely for a short moment but hesitated nought a moment to reply, "Why, you ought to know that laughter is the best medicine for a broken heart!"

We then continued our walk alongside the shelves towards where the costumes were propped up and presented, and again the man's hand quite gently clapped on my own, and he said, "So, then! Where were we, my good Sir? Ah yes! You were about to tell me what has you prowling around the night like the wise wolf from the stories in this book!"

A quick glance to my side revealed that indeed the man was serious with his question, yet I still saw his mouth quirk in some resemblance of his dismantling smile, and his hand was carelessly gesturing towards the binders I had been browsing.

"If you must know." I relented, and admitted with quiet voice so as not to scare away any customers that this man might had, "I was thinking of death."

I stared at him just as he stared at me. Then, the man laughed.

"Like a wise old wolf," said he. "I said it! And I only said it because I knew it. The wise old wolves too go into the dark on their own when it's their time!"

"Do I look old enough to fall into my grave then?"

I felt oddly self-conscious for a rare and short moment before I remembered my own age, and who I was too. The schoolboy, who would have blushed and stammered at these opportune moments, had long since been replaced by the hardened piece of bone that you needed to grow when you planned to survive a few years in the business of Aurorship.

But my moment of insecurity didn't last long and my host and entertainer, with care, tended to this wound my own thoughts had brought upon me.

"No! No," said he quickly, and his countenance spoke of honest regret at making me think so. He then patted my hand yet again, as if to calm my nerves. "It is but a natural affair of which people are afraid to speak of. Some even go so far as to make it a Taboo! - A lone wise wolf though, he hardly would be afraid of anything of the sort, don't you think? A wise wolf, master of his own fate,- he would not walk from death but instead actively seek it out!"

I nodded my head at the sagacity of his words, as though I would seem to find some well-spoken truth in them before he and I fell silent once more.

Next I was lead away from the books towards the costumes, one step at a time, and the man seemed not in the slightest put-off by my lack of response. Mayhaps he was thinking me to be pondering these words of his?

But then, again, there was indeed a grain of truth to be found therein these words, wasn't there? Even if I daredn't call myself anything of the sort of a wolf,- for I had sacrificed most of my life for the good of the others, and not so much spent it mauling them.

Yet, - was it necessarily true that the wolf was indeed a beastly creature? For the dog evolved from the wolf and within the dog we, the people and more precise, our ancestors from long ago, have found our most welcome companion, friend and servant, have we not?

The wolf then too seemed to be among these gregarious and cooperative animate beings. Maybe then, this man at my side had meant to make this a compliment for me? The wolf as a servant to man, yet still with claws and fangs, able to fight for his life?-

What a flatterer, I thought, what a brazenfaced, arrant, silver-tongued profligate!

Still! The shame, in truth was with me, for I enjoyed the idea and the words too.

And there then I felt it in me, not quite unsimilar to how a well-learnt and often-practiced sorcerer like myself would feel his magical ability in his body - yes, even like one of these old wooden mills! If just the water or the winds were there, it could easily and swiftly be brought into service once more!

And just like so, the Ego, which had not been cared for much, indeed even had been beaten down in favor of the greater picture beyond my own self, now reared its ugly decuman head and began to stretch like some ghastly beast from tales of old that had woken from its long-lasting slumber to devour me whole.

"I fear death no more than I fear for those I would leave behind," I said it almost casually and hoped he would take it like so.

"What's it then, if I may ask you my good Sir, that keeps you from the warmth of your bed in this damp and cold night? I would not want to impose on you though. Answer only if you want."

I found myself glancing at the man, and he too eyed me with his wonderful bright brown eyes. And, so it seemed to me, there was indeed some honest curiosity in him, something that seemed almost innocent in its origin. I found myself forced to reply.

"The spirit of rebellion! - I'd rather not stumble into my grave but make it something with meaning. I want to be in control of my own end. Can you understand that?"

"I can! Yes, I can. It's a respectable wish, is it not? Dying holds more grue to it than death itself!"

I shook my head with vehemence. "No, dying is quick and it's much like falling asleep when done right." I corrected him with the earnestness that was gifted to anyone secure with his feelings of death. "I'd rather go on my own terms, though."

"Then rebellion seems like the good sort of thing, does it not? It keeps the blood flowing, and if it surprises these people who go about their planned-out lives, all the better. I say, every one of us encounters their end at their own pace."

Silence came upon us again and we moved alongside the costumes, and there I saw a variety of designs and colours I hadn't thought of since years ago when I had been invited to my first and last ball at the Ministry of Magic.

Oh, don't quite misunderstand me, - I had my fun, indeed, but it seemed like I was the sort of person people would grow uncomfortable around when I let loose. What can I say? It must be a special talent of mine. Well, no matter.-

As the man noticed my interest in these articles next to us, he made to walk slower, giving me the time to gander properly. And as I there was watching these velvets and silks and thick wool and cotton materials designed and cut in all thinkable ways, one of these especially caught my attention.

I let my hand run over the seams of the suit, and found it soft and thick but soft to the touch. The colour too, I found addicting, with its extraordinary depth as it reminded me of pure coal. Black of the blackest sort, and the scheme of colour that seemed to stick with the rest of the dress, and too with the accessoires adorning the stuffed mannequin.

"It is most enchanting, is it not? I have had it for so long, and I have never worn it, I'm afraid."

Yes, I thought, enchanting was a rather well-fitting word, and so I agreed readily, "Indeed. Is it complete?"

I had to ask because all these details I could take in were indeed a lot, and yet I found myself thinking that maybe there was something missing with it. I couldn't rightly say where this feeling was born from, and yet I knew it to be true enough.

My fingers ran along the leather girdle that hung loosely around the waist of the mannequin, over and past the three gilden buckles. I could not stop myself from touching it, and the gilden buttons then too, I could not keep my fingers away from. They felt warm to my touch.

I dare say, even if the feeling in my fingers had me given the idea that there indeed was some sort of magic afoot, I would not have cared any more or any less. This piece was spectacular and I suddenly found my imagination running wild. I pictured me, in this suit - admittedly, my body was well a few decades younger, and there was also a bit more flesh to my body where now is just skin and bones, but still I had no choice but to let it happen.

"It is not. Do have a look," said the man with a smile and gently coerced me to take a step back. I was reluctant at first, but as we did so, the man's arm directed my gaze upon the wall behind the wardrobes and there we saw these masks that I had spotted upon my entrance earlier.

I stared at the masks upon the wall. One of these many, of which quite a few bore similarity, piqued my interest. It was a gilden mask, with a shine to it that didn't seem to come from the light that fell gently upon it, but rather from the material itself. It had no magnific quality to it, except for its sensational shine, and even the features that would give it the distinctive structure that made it a human face - nose shape, nostrils, the nasal septum, cheeks covering the jaw, the chin and mouth with its well-formed but closed lips and some more, - all these things were nothing out of the ordinary and very well resembled the other pieces. But the colour, yes, I thought, the colour was it that drew me to this mask as much as the colour of the suit had me addicted.

"You have a good eye for detail, my good Sir." The man's voice was a mere murmur next to my ear.

"They go together then?" I asked it casually and glanced at him from the side of my eyes, and all I saw was a blurry vision of his face, and yet I found that his expression seemed quite sad there for a short moment. But when I turned my head to see him better, through the glasses on my nose, nothing of that assumed mien was there to be found.

"Yes! Oh yes, go together and only together," said the man quite enthusiastically. "They are part of the same set, you see. They are for when you are about to go into the night, - when you are about to make this one night your all, and you are ready to burn away all you have to give!"

He said it with much more fervour than before and his body tensed quite a bit as he spoke. I could feel him, as we stood there next to each other and arm in arm, speak with his body, and I wondered if it was his natural ability to speak or if he had learned this way of expressing himself. In comparison I myself was capable of only gesturing in small ways with my arms and hands, adding a few expressions I could bring my face to give.

He smiled his brazen smile again, and patted then my hand yet again. "It requires a touch of madness to wear it properly, I'm afraid."

"How so?"

"Oh," said he with a frown. "You see, they are, as I have said, of course, but it's a dress for the stage. Alas, only for actors, chosen for the Play. "

And that was that. He led me away, no matter my reluctance, from these pieces of which I had burnt me a picture into my mind.

We went by and past the wands and staves and the two crossed staffs too.

However to me they felt and seemed like nothing but dried wood without any useful quality to them. There was no spark of magic with them, and they, so Ollivander would have elucidated in his odd but grave way, that these would never have the soul to choose the Wizard or Witch, fated to wield them. They were bereft of all that made a wand a wand.

I, too then found myself oddly bereft - of the impression of attraction to anything that came after the costume. Yes, indeed, and quite so: all that came after this dress and the mask to go with it, was of no interest and seemed to lack in colour and details to me too. The swords were only deformed metal, the long and still colourful feathers to write with were nothing but the epidermal growth from some few sorts of birds and the brooms were only twigs and sticks from one or another tree.

Where I, earlier in the night quite easily would have found myself marvel at these things, I now felt ash and vinegar lace my mouth. With every step we took, this feeling of incongruousness, almost displacedness grew in me, and it stirred my insides much like the early morning sickness that every once so often had plagued me since my early sixties.

There was, rightly, no word in me that in its entirety could grasp these feelings that aroused my being. Bored, drained and tired, and angry too, anxious and flustered, and so many more words I could muster and they all would do this jumble of feelings injustice.-

Bah, I wanted to grouse. Suddenly all I wanted was to take my hat and my cane and get myself home to fall into my bed, or more so, to get away from this store and this man and all that would remind me of it.

I knew I could do better than this,- still I could not help it. The voice of the so helpful man began to grate on me, and though he seemed wholly unaware and unconcerned with my sudden quietness, I, with relief, noted that he lead our steps back towards the counter.

I fetched my cane and my hat too and with too quick a farewell to be polite I hurried past the patrons that still lingered in the shop, off back into the night.

A thin drizzle of rain was drenching the world as I went out, back into the mostly deserted streets. My hat was pulled deep into my face and still the wind drove the rain drops with a steady rhythm against the grimace reflecting on my inner turmoil.

First I went slowly, then more quickly and there then with the quickening of my steps overcame me the anger at myself, my inability to accept that this piece of cloth and the mask with it, were not mine to be. There too was disappointment with me, and it came in waves, and they ebbed, receded and returned stronger than before, only to find repeat in a cycle.

Maybe there was more to this anger than the rejection I had felt at being told of the stipulation that came with owning the garb, but there in this moment I found nothing but scalding hot rage roar in me, and it was directed at me and only me.

I struggled to think through the haze that lay pregnant upon my mind. Whencever the impotent anger in me came from, with maltreating ease it was suffocating me.

The rain, bounteously hid away the sour tears that I spilled as I paced the familiar streets in stupor. Naturally I was spilling tears, I had reason enough for it. Weakness and anger, and anger at the weakness, - some indissoluble pair it was that was driving these tears of mine.

Was the anger then consequence to the weakness? It must be so, my thoughts revealed, and I went on to curse with unspoken words on this blinding feeling of impotence!

This anger would ride me like a cheap broom until all of me was raw and worn and all too ready to fall apart. And it would be best, until then, if nobody familiar were to cross my path, so I knew from experience, or I would lash out at them and the falsehood of their empathy, and the empty words of their sympathy.

It all, was pity, the cruelest of all curses mankind had created, ill disguised and eager to beset me.

I found myself reminded of the early years after the war against Voldemort. My recollection of these days was surprisingly clear, and none of it was as positive as the history books painted it to be these days. As was expected, aside of the people, that had well-practiced routine in their historical negationism, time too had brought a certain (and in my opinion illegitimate) distortion upon the matters that pertained these days of getting back on our feet and putting away the dead bodies of our friends and families, the rubbles of what was left standing and doing away with all the hate and pain that remained with us.

The Harry Potter of that time had given himself leave to set down to rest and adapt to the newfound situation. The war had been over and trials and funerals were to be held. He had suffered great personal losses, much like many others, and there then he had found himself stood face to face with the irrational, the absurd. All of a sudden the question that drew now only himself but all of mankind lay pugnant before him: what to do with this life?

Change had been inevitable to that Harry Potter. There then had begun the destruction of who was the Gryffindor Seeker with his boyish personality, the epitome of teenage stubbornery, and instead, slowly and with care, a newer and more adapted version rose from what was left. I, stepped into the light of our new age, dancing around the political plays, the trials, the demands from all sides at the Ministry, and me too.

Where the boyish Harry Potter had swallowed down the scorn of those people that would have believed him with their chinese whispers -the Heir of Slytherin, -a fame-seeking hound for attention as the fourth Triwizard Champion, -a liar and murderer, demented, crazy and dangerous, I then had found myself confronted by the idealisation of my character through the grieving mob of people. My character, and all its traits, I found had been elevated beyond the status of mere humanity. I had become some sort of anomalous champion to drive the public's moral through these postwar years.

Where the stubborn teenager Harry Potter, in spite of all the horrible fear, rage and anguish, had fought the war because it had been the right thing to do, had never killed despite the ease with which magic would have allowed for it to happen, had even walked to his own death for the Greater Good, I now, had had enough of these ideas of preaching water and drinking wine, of self-sacrificial martyrdom for a world that didn't seem willing to change. The hard-earned lesson of life that all actions had to have proper consequences had been drilled into my head, and I had found some way of accommodating myself with the reality that we there now had to face. -

We had mercy on the daughters and sons, but their fathers and mothers, enchanted monsters wearing the skins of men, with their pale sweaty faces full of anger and sorrow; they were rightly held imprisoned until their guilt had been proven beyond any and all doubt.

Old families who back then went by the common and preferred term of 'Purebloods', then suddenly stood plagued by some sort of existential agnosia before the new Ministry and its changed laws.

The public's verdict had been passed: they had attempted to contaminate our world of magic with their pureblood esthetics, destroying any and all atmosphere of awakening after the long slumber of wartime. But we'd tended to them with professional effectiveness that belied our rage, and soon all these things that we had dreaded, that had held too long an influence over us had been done with.

Every day sitting in these trials, I, there then had struggled to contain the rage and anger and the feeling of impotence too, as a new soul every day kept coming with their hands chained together, taking the place of those that came before them. They too, like all before them, had cried their vociferous demands to be freed, they too had raged and aged before their sentence.

Only once or twice, I had found myself tempted to take matters into my own hands, when there, sitting with their rich clothes and ill-concealed leers had been yet another of these foul beasts, claiming to have been the victim of the spell to control minds with.

But I had known myself to be better than that. I had found faith in this system we had built with our own blood for mortar, and I knew there then to be people like me; these mine wonderful friends and allies had walked these steps with me, and all of them had outdone themselves on this.

The stupor of my thoughts carried my steps back home. And before I knew it, I was in my bed and slept for maybe four to five hours.

It was nine and three quarters in the morning when I woke. I felt utterly exhausted, and the anger yet seemed to simmer deep within me, somewhere neither I nor my nugatory skill at Enthymency could reach. It was there all the same and would, at some opportune moment, fly out of me with all its might and let me do something I would find myself regretting as soon as my senses would return to me.

The memory of my failure too kept with me, stuck to my every thoughts like some parasitic demon of ecclesiastical nature, set to draw on me and wear me out until I would keel over from exhaustion, to sleep away some more of my remaining days of life.

I did not have to employ any some abstract Bibliomancy to know that it was a spell of my own making.

Nothing magical, of course. No, it indeed was the obscurantistic way of my thoughts to hinder me at reaching a conclusion! - The foe, again, was I to myself.

I had braced myself for such days before, and I could do it once more, and with that I got out of my bedroom and with practiced ways I set about cleaning the clothes in which I had slept from the creases.

There was little to do this late in the morning, and so I set about doing my daily trot with the knowledge that I soon would again have to face my demons, lest they would eat me from inside out.

As I came upon the cold kitchen, my magic willed fire to fill the masonry oven and as I enjoyed the sudden warmth, a stack of letters upon my kitchen's desk sprang into my eyes.

The first few, they were the sort of letters that came every day. Letters that enquiried about my opinion on this or that matter, and I seldom had it in me to not reply at least with a short few words to these polite people who seemed lost without the delight of my response.

Surely it must sound bombastic and presumptuous, but it's the unembellished truth.

Parents, undecided citizens about to cast their votes, the sons and daughters of friends long gone in the wind, or rotting away in their graves,- they all would find it in them to write to me and ask for my opinion and thoughts and I would, too readily, give it away, if only to buy myself one more day of peace of mind.

But not today, I thought. I was still unwashed and clad in these clothes from my night out. So I threw these letters, open as they were back to the table and moved about the kitchen.

There was food to be found somewhere, I knew, as I had seen to it that the pantry was always stocked well enough to survive a few days short of a week without taking myself into one of these monstrous shopping centres.

A kettle was prepared for tea, and a few biscuits I placed upon the kitchen's table.

I had little hunger and some pounding headache had joined the tiredness that lay upon my mind like some muddling vapour.

I picked up these others letters that I had yet to open.

Ah, I thought as I opened the first heavy parchment, Hermione's usual way of inviting herself to my humble abode. I should have guessed it from the way my name upon the thick parchment was written, I scolded myself.

The second and the one after that were nothing of importance. I vanished them away without bothering to read beyond the words that asked for a small donation to this or that cause. For money, these leeches were all too eager to scamper to me on their knees, begging away with their words of hollow sounding platitudes for what little gold I could spare. The exalted Harry Potter surely will be charitable for this just cause, they would proclaimed just in range of others, as if to hope that these words of a dare, of ruining what reputation I had left, would coerce some Galleons yet out of my thin purse! Or here then, in these letters, would they tell me of the duty that lay with me, to care for these their causes with my coin.

Bah, I say! Bah!

All the money I have had once to give, now was spent! All the Galleons, the Sickles and the Knuts once stacked up high in my vaults, all of it I had given freely, to those that had nothing, and I had given it freely to the late Headmistress McGonagall to aid her in the repairs of the school that had been damaged so utterly that it had remained half a ruin. By virtue I had given it all, much like the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle had postulated in his Nicomachean Ethics.

It had been direly needed too, as the Ministry had had no money to help these people, or to restore these lands and walls of Hogwarts from their state of ruin. -

A coffin for every body, friend and foe alike, a single but worthy funeral procession for them all. And then there had been the repairs. It all hadn't come cheap, and the money I had to give had joined the coin of few others, still we managed.

Walls had to be restored, protections had to be woven yet again, statues that had fought and been destroyed in their duty, defending the castle from the attackers had to be replaced, had to receive the breath of life again.

There had been much to be done and nothing of it had been for free. All, either because they themselves had suffered greatly and had nothing much to fall back to, or, because they had seen the opportunity present itself like a lone sheep prancing in the night afar of the herd, for the wolfish predators, had held open their palms for their payments.

Virtue had been a rare good, indeed. -

And there yet again my thoughts immediately and quite without my bidding returned to the half-forgotten horrors of the night before. I could feel still the man's eyes linger on me, and I could make out these words he'd spoken crawl in my head, winding deeper and deeper with every thought I put upon them. Pictures rose in my mind like vapour, floating in and out of the periphery of my inner eye. As if I could grab them if I just tried hard enough, and yet, all the same, they were just half a hand's reach too far away to grab them.

There then very sudden realisation came upon me, viz., I had, in my addled state of unmight not asked for the name of the play the dress, and the mask too, had been made for!

The whistling of the kettle upon the stove brought me back into the safe haven of my reality, before some quite mad decision could be wrought from these thoughts and I made quick work of brewing me some strong malt tea.

Once the tea was done and I had sated my hunger, I moved into my study. I brought the letters with me, as I could not with good conscious refuse these people their answers, if only to tell them to keep on living, to keep on trying. That was all there was to life.

There was naught an attempt worse than not trying at all. The very same sentiment, and all the other virtues of the old Aristotle kept with me and bid me to be the good man I had been known to be ever since the war.

Indeed, a feeling of splendid warmth spread through my being as I, with a certain vigor, began to answer these letters. It was as if the pit that was my soul had been asleep, until suddenly the warmth that came from the usual fire with which I always had acted, argued my cases, fought my battles and cared for my people, returned to life. Where before the abominable paralysis that came with the anger had left me with embers, I now felt ablaze with small but lively flames again.

Driven by this sudden feeling, the alacrity overcame me.

Still, knowing that wisdom could not be bestowed upon another being made me wary with my words. Imparting wisdom would always sound like a crazen moondrunk's attempts of speech. Certainly, knowledge I could easily confabulate to these people, yet wisdom was doomed to be only gained from experience. So I spoke a compendious way, without entering the depthful details of the virtues of the Aristotle and compared them to the Gautama Buddha of the far East, and I let myself become the host for this idea until all it had been bled from my mind onto the parchment before me.

As you have learned in your lessons at Hogwarts, I wrote, virtue ethics are humanist ethics, and Gautama Buddha too was a humanist of sorts, and Aristotle would clap his hands happily, I would like to believe, if he came to know that Gautama Buddha had preached 'The mind is the source of happiness and unhappiness', while offering his understanding and guidance to 'Nirvana'.

Yet Gautama Buddha and Aristotle too, I continued my writing, like any a man, they would have disagreed on this or that too. It is only healthy, every once in a while, to disagree.

Where Gautama Buddha would have said that compassion is an aspiration, a state of mind, and that you must understand the nature of suffering from which we wish to free others, if you wish to attain inner peace and therefore true happiness - Aristotle wrote that the life that consists in the exercise of the reason is indeed the best and pleasantest for man, and therefore the most happiest. Indeed, where Gautama Buddha valued ideas such as love and compassion, Aristotle sought to exercise reason.

Since our early beginnings, all of man has sought to find understanding whencefrom comes happiness, and they too have speculated how to attain it. All of our lives miserable moments and thoughts have been brought upon us in our quest of seeking some form of felicity. And while the Gautama Buddha and Aristotle would have disagreed on their methods, they would have agreed on the goal.

I believe, it must be our all aim to attain a society made of happiness, and it matters not what methods you employ, if you are to follow Aristotle or Gautama Buddha, or mayhaps Schopenhauer with his ideas of compassion and pity or if you pave your own path, alongside what is lawful and rightful, moral and proper. Take this spark of creation, that Magic's given you, and plant it there, where your felicitousness is born from and see to it, that it may bloom into a nonpareil future.

You mustn't be like Epicur, I wrote. You mustn't be the man or woman that avoids all life has to offer for the sake of peace and through that, happiness - felicity. You mustn't fear the fear, mustn't fear the worry over death, mustn't fear that what you do may not be good enough. All of it, is part of this our life and we must take it fully and accept it as such. Be happy with all of it, and make it your own where you can. Be like Nietzsche, and overcome yourself. Accept all life has to offer. Make it yours, and bloom with Amor Fati.

The headache almost forgotten did I give myself into this thinking and the writing that came with it. Father Time raced me for this, and I found myself losing.

There was a knock on the door and gone was the monomania from my mind. I threw the quill with which I wrote to the parchment and hurried to open to whoever had come to disturb me.

I still had not changed my clothes, and my hair too, looked quite tousled from my fitful, short sleep.

I needed not to hurry, for as I reached the hallway, there she was: Hermione, grey hair thin on her head, had shrunken some more since the last time we had met. Her clothes were wet, and the tone of her greeting made me feel torn at seeing her.

"A 'Good Day,' to you, Hermione," said I, and turned around.

"You look awful, Harry."

I felt compelled to laugh at her expression. "You are no beauty yourself, my dear."

She moved through my small home without much bidding and found herself a place close to the warm stove in the kitchen. Her magic was working its wondrous ways to prepare some set of tea as I followed behind.

"And yet I don't look like I one was of the walking dead, stalking through the night."

"Afraid of feeling alive? You should try it then maybe once or twice before you keel over," I suggested in a heartbeat. Her laugh was my reply and it was dry and raspy and it carried no little of the bitterness that had festered in Hermione since the last days of her Ministership.

It too, was the laugh she had laughed when Ron had left her. We had shared this sort of laugh a few times since then, and I too had it in me to laugh like this. Yet, where Hermione had been swallowed by this, her bitterness, I had embraced it, and had made it part of me.

Admittedly, as I was not beyond my own humanity, I too could easily be swallowed by these emotions. The torment of the night before had proven this, and I was not a fool enough to contemplate that I was beyond erring.

"Tea," asked she, and her wand was already set in motion to provide with care for her and myself a cup each. I daredn't decline her offer, and shortly after our tea was set before us.

We had a little talk about this and that. It always took some time to break away this shell of her's, and there now it took some more to elicit more than the casual questions over everyday-life from her.

There were no confessions to be made, and little did I care about her habits as she did care naught for mine. We had known each other for long enough to have seen all there was to see, known all there was to know and heard all there was to hear about each other and our rotten habits.

Often enough, though, I must say, I have had found myself intimidated by the intelligence, and this sharpness there now too that yet kept with Hermione. Her bright wit made me scramble to keep up with the barbs she spun with her mouth. Indeed it was a delight to talk to her, as it returned me to these long-bygone days from the past without the wicked feeling of nostalgia layering itself upon these thoughts like a crusted and caked film.

We spoke all over the place. One moment gone for the next and with it a whole new topic filled our heads.

I mentioned by accident how little contact I had had with my own son in the past few months. While we were not of the same blood, he still had grown to my heart just the same. There then the shell of hers seemed to become brittle. And, seizing the moment, I drove forward.

We then talked too of her grandchildren.

The motherly side of a woman that Hermione might have grown into if she had taken to raising her children instead of focusing on work I had never bothered to think of, and yet here then it presented itself to me, as she spoke with wet eyes of her grandchildren.

She was the sort of woman that had a strong will in herself. In youth, when all had been done after the war, Hermione had found her mission within the Ministry, much like I myself had taken to these fields. - Yet where I quickly had found that politics wasn't mine to be with, that I preferred Aurorship (executive authority) over the matters of the struggle within the legislative and judiciary, Hermione had indeed flourished there, in the pit with the bloodhounds. She had bitten through them with her sharp wit and her trenchant words.

Still, I had been involved too much with these matters of the laws, their creation and execution, that I knew well enough how much a task these things had been upon her.

Little time for the family had been left, and where I had taken to these times with eagerness, Hermione had often lost her head.

In reminiscence, indeed, I found myself reminded of her doing the very same most often when it came to the stressful days of Hogwarts' examination days.

But to return to the matter. Where before Hermione had been this wondrous, strong and effective woman, with her very own few idiosyncrasies, she there now sat before me as a old and tired woman that was out of her depth.

All these years of work, for the Greater Good had not managed to purchase her the happiness she now found her mind and body longing for.

There was nothing to say but that hindsight was often easier than foresight.

It was as it was. I hinted at it, and voiced the idea that suffering twice seemed foolish.

"What's done is done," said I with conviction. She, there then glared at me with a sullen contumacy, as if it would make these words any less true.

I let her be and Hermione fell silent. We have had some such conversation a few times before.

I took the time to refill our cups and when I was done, her eyes were upon mine. It was an intense gaze she layered on me.

"How do you deal with it," asked she. And she did not need to say more for I understood. My own contemplating from the night before was still with me, most recent with the other things. But I forewent these ideas that had come to me in the night.

Instead I offered, "I admit, it's not easy, Hermione." Then I gifted myself a few moments to gather my thoughts. "All our lives can only be understood once they are lived, yet life happens before us. We mustn't dwell on what has happened, but we must take heed and listen to the warnings and take these with us into the next day."

She laughed at these words, and it was her bitter laugh, not the laugh she too could produce if she had found something heartening in her. I remembered her laughing like a fool high on hormones, lovestruck, or riding the waves of a spell of pleasure, but here now instead it was a laugh that seemed to mock me for my conviction.

I found myself wanting to comment on her true aims, and her means of surrounding herself with a sort of people that could give her the emotional comfort she found herself wanting. But for all that I could do so, I knew well enough that Hermione had no mind for these distractions and disturbances, and so I thought of making do with other ways of taking some of this chronic bitterness and scorn that festered within her.

But there too was an understanding with me that I was bordering the path of hypocrisy with my words of acceptance. It was, as often with thoughts, a heavy labour to do with. Still, I knew and understood that it was a sign of intellect to come to find acceptance within the knowledge that you can think a thought without being bound by it.

"You know, Hermione? In these days it has become rare for people to act without having any impetus to drive them. It is quite understandable, I admit."

She though, only scoffed at me. "Have you lost what little marbles you had left Harry?"

"Hear me out," I implored her. "There is no shame in such behavior. It is the principle of enlightened self-interest; to act in the best interest of another human being, if it equally produces the best interest for yourself. It makes sense, nay?"

"No! It sounds far too convenient an excuse. What are you even saying? That I should be understanding that they want nothing to do with me?"

I hid my smile at her irate face. "It would indeed be both irrational and immoral for anyone to act against their own self-interest. But no, I think you confuse the importance of familial bonds in this time, and for that matter altruism with kindness, too."

"So you believe," she said shortly. "Mind you, - have you forgotten that you have no proof for these words?"

I laughed openly at her. No, indeed I had not forgotten her often repeated words that he who makes a claim should be able to back it up. Belief, so Hermione, never was valid proof for anything, and I concurred more often than not.

"Altruism is libertine self-destruction, because it cannot find an end, - you would need to give and give and give until all you had is gone! Is it wrong of people to expect payment in any form?" I asked her without requiring answer, for I knew we would disagree. "Family too, is just one such a social construct that has at some point been of more importance than it is nowadays."

"Gah! You sound like I did," said she with frustration in her voice. "Have you hidden books in your robes too?"

I laughed once more. "It's not that bad to be an smartarse, I admit."

"I just want to see them a bit." Her whisper was filled with wetness. She breathed in and out a few times, then the mood was gone again. "I don't know why Rose is against having me see them."

I waved my wand at our tea and the heat returned to the flavourful water.

"You know how I think on this matter. Family requires no unconditional love, Hermione."

"You only say that because of the Dursleys, Harry! Your so called family-life with them was beyond all examples lacking any form of affection!"

Her hand went down on the wooden table, yet I did not flinch. I had seen her do so often enough when she still had held the Office of the Minister. Her rage had been one force on par with magic, only more focused and less volatile in its ways, and no spell could counter it on itself. Hah, it had been fun to see this abstract might focused on people that were not myself.

I cared not if she would let it out on my table, and I was still mostly assured that her skills with the wand had mellowed out enough over the years that my house would survive a little fighting with ease.

I understood her inability to comprehend well enough, as I had taken quite some time too, to come to terms with these ideas. The suffering that came with the rejection from someone you had raised, someone you would have died and maybe even killed for, it never came cheap. Even such was understating the damage it could do to your soul.

"I say it, because I see it that way. Children come into this world because of parents, therefore it is a parents obligation to care for the child in whatever best way they can." I shrugged slowly as I went on. "A child, by no means through that invokes a debt to the parents."

"How can you say that?" She glared at me, and I, much as I had learned to do with her, merely stared back. "I saw you raise Teddy! How can you be so phlegmatic towards your child?"

I raised my hands then in placation. "It hurts, Hermione. And it always will hurt. I know that. But it is my duty as a parent to understand and accept this decision of my child. Teddy has had his reasons, I am sure, but I think, I too am partly responsible for how it has turned out."

And there then sat she before me, with her grey hair bound tight to a braid, with her wool robes atop her prim and proper clothes. Her hands were shaking, her body was quaking. Then the quiet sobs came.

It was but a natural reaction to such a situation in which very suddenly she had found herself out of control. This understanding in me was made from experience, as I too had faced the wrath of Teddy early on. Andromeda Tonks had laughed herself silly on my back, and I too might have given in to the crazen laughing. But here then, now with Hermione, I knew she would not find solace within my words. It would take time to find acceptance, that she suddenly had no more control as any other human being had over another. Books too, something upon which she had relied again and again had no meaningful advice or power for such a situation. -

Time might heal these wounds, I would want to assure her, but time was indeed our enemy with this our age, and I could not find it in me to build her hope upon these castles of sand when the tide was about to arrive.

"You won't find it easy, Hermione, but we both know you will do anything that might give you the chance to connect to them," said I.

Then, with a quick movement I conjured us a paper tissue and I made to clear away these tears she had spilled. I found that still, after all these years my chest felt heavy at the sight of her eyes red and puffy from sadness.

Yet before my mind could fabulate gossamer threads of hypothetical questions that surely would make me ache with the missed potential life I could have lead, I concentrated on there here and then instead. This thinking might appease my soul for one short moment of drunken sensuality, I knew that well enough. Still, I wasn't known for my masochistic tendencies, and therefore I refused to fall for this trap in my head.

When she was finished with the tears and her dolorousness was tamed once more, a few rare shining rays of light returned to her brown eyes and with them too came a smile to her face. It was much like a rainbow would come out and paint upon the sky when the rain was done and the sun returned to shine down to Terra.

Then, in spite of the moment before, where all the sadness had pooled out of her in one terrifying spill of tears and sobs, Hermione laughed.

"Thank you Harry."

With the same lightness that her tone carried, I smiled and my wand returned these wet tissues back into the nothing they had come from. "That's what friends are for, nay? It's healthy to let it out once in a while, or so you've told me."

The prim and proper lady stuck out her tongue at me, then she took to the biscuits I still had layn out on the table. Idly she commented, "You still haven't gotten rid of the habit of speaking 'Yay and Nay'?"

"Nay," I cried with fervour and then we laughed, and with the laughter all that was dark and gloom around us receded back into the pit it came from.

"I saw Teddy with his son."

I nodded my acceptance but prodded no further. This path, tempting as it was, too only held pain ready for me the moment I would step upon it.

"He's given the Cloak to him," she continued, and when she had been assured that I indeed was listening, she went on, "thought you should know that."

"It is only right," said I. "It's an heirloom and I rightly have no more use for it, don't you think? I'm a little bit too old to be afraid of being seen when I stalk about."

"Ah, yes. You are not willing to hide from Death, are you? And still you have the Wand."

I heard the capitalization of the letter the moment she spoke it, though there was no accusation in her tone. She, with a swift lunge grabbed my wand from the table.

For one short moment panic seemed to rise from deep inside up to my throat. I relaxed only when I saw her carefully counting the beads, working over every part of it until all these details had been touched by her thin and wrinkly fingers. When she was done she laid it back. Her eyes sought mine and when she found them, she said, "Have you thought about destroying it?"

I afforded myself to hum as I thought about this question. For indeed, what was I to do with this piece of tainted wood? Its memory was too dark, its future once out of my hands too unpredictable, its power too tempting to consider leaving it behind. The knowledge that it would not be safe with my rotting flesh and bones was clear, as had been proven when Voldemort had dug the wand from a dead man's grasp to wield it once before failing to take flight from death for the last time. No, there most assuredly would have to be found a better way to handle this tool of slaughter before I would succumb to the tempting thoughts of my grand finale.

However its destruction I could not approve.

I, on my last days could not bring myself to become the soul-destroyer, renderer of wands. There was no heroism or act of grand importance to be found in the utter destruction of this stick of magic, fury of Antioch, Death's fabled glowstick, and with it what remained of its former wielders.

I knew, of course, that Hermione often was all pleased when I followed her suggestions about this business or that, least as long as I indeed kept to her ideas. Wanted I to neglect her advice in favour of spending a short while to present myself an idea of my own, her objections would often be made known loud and clear.

"Oh I have been thinking about it often enough! You tell me, do you have the mind to destroy it? I have shown you my memory."

I could say my words did not please her, and I would be a fool to have thought different. I met her gaze and she glared once more at me.

"I know it well enough," she replied with her usual attitude. "Still, you'll have to find a solution. I can't help you with this. The problem is all yours, Harry. You had time enough, don't you think? An Eternity spent at the fire. I wish you all the luck, you'll need it, Harry."

"We shall see. I'll think of something. Maybe I'll take it with me when I jump off a cliff? It ought to make it harder to find it," I assured her.

She grunted angrily at me. I had shared my ideas of death with her, as it was true that I felt no shame about these thoughts.

It spoke for her and our friendship, I say, that she had not found it in her to disagree with my reasoning. Or mayhaps I had finally bested her logos?

We finished our tea and we talked little more. She declared then with her usual brashness, that it was about time she left. She mentioned some commitment she would have to show her face at and I left it at that.

"You have still work to do, don't you?" She asked me as she picked up my wand and held it to me. I shook my head with a smile and accepted the Elder Wand.

"Only a bit," said I and with a flick and some more twirls all the evidence of her stay was gone. I knew she was not one to loiter and this habit of hers had only gotten worse since our youth.

"Do you want me to bring you some flowers to liven up your place?"

She did not have to tell me her reason for asking. She had need to talk a little more and who else but I could she meet and confide with? I knew it well enough. Work like hers and mine too, for that matter, had left us scarcely a friend.

But who, I ask, did this then surprise?

Hermione, and I had backed her with this too, had turned around all and every piece of laws. She had roentgenized them, and no little subtle jealousy had sprung alive when these laws that had favoured one side or another, found their ways into the bin. They had raged, and accusations had been made known, as if there indeed had been an entitlement for friends to receive some sort of privileged treatment!

Mayhaps they had thought us joking with ill humour? I can't say. We took care of it, though, and we rid this our world of tomorrow of the stain of cronyism and favouritism.

Eminently though, if my memories were to be believed, not all the people we had thought to call friends had found it in them to agree with hers or mine searingly honest working morals.

Indeed, once more the phrase: What's done is done, comes to mind then, and we, or at least I find myself thankful to no longer having to care for these backwards people with their backwards morals and their backwards ideas, living in their backwards world.

"Yes. Why not. Choose whichever you like. I'll be happy with them," said I, and I hugged her properly.

"It's a promise then. White roses maybe?" She speculated loudly and clapped her hand to my chest. "No, wait. I'll make it lilies! They will go well with you. Farewell Harry."

And then she was gone without the usual soft sound that accompanied the method of apparition.

The house seemed oddly quiet once I was alone with myself once more.

This quietness, while oppressive in its nature, meant not absolute silence but rather lack of aliveness. Indeed, the wooden beams that carried the roof and the walls creaked when the wind stood just right against the house, just as much as the doorframes groaned under the miniscule movement of the walls. These thick wooden panels of the floor too crepitated when the heat of the stove made them expand. In the night then, I would hear them recede. It was an odd play of things that went together.

Maybe there was a certain beauty to these odd sounds. They came much like the dark often surprising and yet as the inescapable force majeure that the turning of Terra was there was no taking flight from it.

There were some few such situations, where I would sit somewhere in the house, be it eve or morn, and by chance I would be utterly entranced with thinking my thoughts or going about my work and then a sudden noise would have me escape from this moment to realise all the peculiar and queer sounds and smells I hitherto had not realised surrounding me. And just like that the moment would be gone too.

Sometimes though, these things made me wary. A new sound then, would have me grasp for my wand. Some extrinsic smell oddly familiar and yet new, and I would be ready to cast my magic in half a heartbeat.

One moment I could caper joyfully through the thicket of my thoughts, and the next I would then realise this quietness laying upon the house like some predator, teasing and dangerous, playing with me as the prey.

Often enough I imagined that this must be the sound one hears inside the casket when the final rest comes bidding you to close your eyes.

Maybe it was old-man's humour to think like that. Maybe it was gallows humour that came with the loneliness. I can't rightly decide.

Still, even the dark held the fabled terreurs nocturnes (pavor nocturnus) to some people - it wasn't much a skip from there to think of these things then too as something I could be spooked by.

I daredn't dwell any longer on these thoughts; they were distractive, and I was yet in need to finish writing my response to these letters.

So I sat down, a biscuit or two placed before me and I continued my daily work. I had to read over what I had written before as most of it eluded me after having talked with Hermione.

I found myself erasing half of it in favor of forgoing some of these sentences that I had given in to phrase like a command instead of a suggestion.

Yes, a suggestion was indeed the better idea.

Most of these people asking for advice were young still and headstrong too. Maybe proud and a bit too vivacious, but good people all the same. I understood then, that I would destroy their trust and interest if I were to force my opinion like something absolute on them.

A suggestion though, would teach them. It would make them think of these things on their own, I hoped, and it would give them a point to which they could return if their mind ran circles. There too was the trouble of phrasing a suggestion as a commandment, by employing words laden with some predetermined (ethical) purport. This sort of talking would absolve the reader of the need to think of their own morals when committing a deed or two.

When I was done, most of the day was gone by already.

The heat of the magical fire in the masonry stove had kept the house warm against the thin rain that again came down from the heavens, and the clouds were still hiding away Sol's warming light from this dreary patch of land my house stood on.

Still, the quietness again was creeping up on me, and with every heartbeat I could hear gushing the blood through my ears. I could hear my breaths, not quite ragged yet far from healthy, and I could hear the heavy fabric of my wooly clothes rubbing against my skin.

The mood to stay at home any longer was gone, and so I hurried to take a shower and then a change of clothes too.

I felt little refreshed, still I put up the mask that hid away these feelings. I put on my shoes with almost a tired sigh. I was not disgusted or discontent with what little I had achieved today, yet I felt like I had wasted good time doing nothing.

With my hat put on my head and my cane in my hand I went out into the damp air to do whatever I could find myself busy with.

Immediately the rain set on me and I felt the textiles I wore growing heavier with the minute.

I felt like I was fleeing my own home as I hurried across the gravel path towards the lively streets, filled with people staring at their thin handheld devices, living in a strictly siloed world where I had no interest to find entrance to. They ran past each other with nary a glance, to their works or homes, or wherever else they would seek refuge from this weather or their life.

I couldn't rightly remember when people had gotten started on using these phones that much. I remembered handheld phones to be big and clunky, and when I had looked next the world had already moved to the next design. I must have missed it, like many more things when I was busy with my own life in Magical Britain.

When I first had seen people stare at their small handheld devices, barely more than a thin card, I had been surprised, and no little curious. But that interest, that yearning to keep up, to keep the connection to that non-magical world had lessened with time passing by.

The atmosphere of that feeling of novelty had been lost to me, and it would never return to this grey concrete world with its concrete buildings, its concrete walls, stairs, streets and its unitary look. - There was nothing I felt touched by, interested in. This new age of technology had passed by me and I had, thoroughly, missed the entrance on my own way through life.

Then, before I came upon the cobblestone that would lead farther down the street to where these signs would hang lightless and grey, waiting for the night to give them purpose and life once more for a few short hours of blinking phantasy, I turned away and hurried from all the robotic husks with the faces of glum people stalking about their daily grind.

It was strange how life went.

Where before, when Hagrid had picked me up to purchase all these things required to receive the education at Hogwarts I had felt like some misplaced alien entering a rather backwards world, I now felt like a backwards alien entering a futuristic world.

Still, I was alive, afloat in this messy harbour that was my life.

Had I some sense of adventure that went beyond my own death I would surely dive into this absurd and strange newness, if only to avoid descrying once more the the feeling of displacedness that could sink me any moment like some transcendent force.

When I was younger still, I had actively sought out these feelings of confrontation in which I would battle headstrong against this transcendent force with its sharp class and razorlike fangs. I had been some crazen addict for these situations in which my adrenal glands would pump their hormones into my blood and I would be high on the rush of awareness and fright.

Yes, I can admit this without feeling ashamed for it, as anyone having had spared a glance to my acrobatic flight when mounted to a broom in one of the many matches I had played for the House of Gryffindor at Hogwarts, could surely have seen, nay?

I had often enough dived to the ground to catch the Snitch, all for the game, all for this one and very short moment of feeling free, of escalation and exhilaration!

There too had been other situations that had left me with bodily marks, situations that I had often not sought on my own, but had stumbled upon unwittingly.

A scar there on my forehead where my life as a miracle worker had begun-, a scar here on my arm from the Basilisk-, another one on my hand from writing the words of rebellion, and yes there too on my chest, the blackened spot of numb flesh where the Avada Kedavra had impacted with me.

I had these proofs of my battles within my very own grand quest through life.

The first on my own, I had fought with reluctance for what I believed to be right, to save life, to protect the weak. The next I had fought out of spite, out of rebellion against what I perceived as sick and rotten. The last I had fought to die.

And never had I bothered to see if the very real abyss which I had defied with all my actions for so long, indeed was not mayhaps gazing back at me with its penetrating stare, inviting me with its writhe and endless form of promiscuous flesh, coiling around all that was and ever would be.

My life seemed like some cosmic joke, and as I was now nearing the end of it, the punchline was due to spring up, and I could see it before me already: Harry Potter, the old man without purpose, afraid of feeling alive.

The familiar tingle of charms laying upon charms close to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron broke me out of my reverie. I turned right once more and there then I spotted the blackened wooden door with the gilden sign on it.

The owner's name was erased from the plate, I saw, and for a short moment I was irritated by it. Then, as I came upon the handle to push open the old and heavy door, I again was surprised for a brief moment when there was no light casting the shadows of drunken and cantankerous fellows to the walls.

I needed to remind me that indeed the Leaky Cauldron was nowadays little more than a thoroughfare for those magicals unwilling or unable to enter Diagon Alley by means of magical transportation.

My steps led me over the dirty wooden floor. The wood here too creaked under my weight, and though it reminded me of my home, the sounds were not discomforting in the least. The smell too,- the mouldy, damp and stale tobacco odour of these halls, it was oddly comforting.

I found new strength rising up with the memories that came unbidden from the depth of my mind. These memories of when I had first entered this shebeen, and then too of these days when I had rented a room for a couple of nights of blissful freedom. And some more.

By golly! These thoughts! What was I thinking? Was this really all I had managed to procure with all these years of living? Had I really fought these fights, died this death to now suffer myself these thoughts of an fearful old man?

No! By Merlin, by Gaia, Utu, Enlil, Odin and Ra and all the other oathing exclamations I knew of, no!

The anger from the night before reared its head within me.

I felt the urge to give into one of these tantrums I had been infamous for in my youth, even if only to let go of this abstract and austere façade of serenity that still clung to my person!

I wanted to destroy something, drown myself in this narcotic furiousnis until the raving madness would overtake me with its red, soaring heat and all thoughts and sorrows would be gone for this short eternity of anger.

Why should the world not be as ugly and disturbed on the outside as I felt just now on the inside?

On this occasion, why ever not, should I draw upon this earth-shaking power that lingered deep within me? It would be an uprooting experience for any all to witness this then, if I were to shatter the world into a thousand and one tiny fragments! It would be the utmost despair I could bring out of myself into the world, and it would swallow me with its fiery flames until I was gone and all these things I had built with me.

Madness filled me with its dastardly heat, breaking away my inhibitions as if I was some teenager about to break the rules, to drink his first alcohol, to have some introduction to the carnal pleasure that came with that age.

I asked myself what use had magic's might to me, if I daredn't use it to free myself of this possessive aura of rage?

But I had no answer to that question, for as soon as the rage had come, it subsided again.

And it left me frustrated and angry with myself, for it was once more a feeling of abstract impotence and no little shame for these thoughts. I felt the rage shatter without almost any resistance at all. The inner conflicts of morality and permissible rage left me feeling deranged and with no little amount of queer, continuous pity. I felt like a stranger to myself for these short moments in which I breathed in and out and in and out until all these feelings of temptation to draw the wand and let go had left me entirely.

My thoughts tempted me, taunted me with pictures of what might have happened had I given in to these painful ideas of frenzy. It was torture, and I rightly deserved it.

When my thoughts were once more my own, I found that I stood before the brick wall that hid away the entrance to Diagon Alley. Here it was dry, and a magical sunshine graced the charmed sky with its artificial warmth.

I took a fortifying breath as my hand grasped to the temptation given wooden form, and then I passed through the skeuomorph in front of me. As soon as I had stepped through, I let go of the Elder Wand, lest I found myself tempted once more by these thoughts.

My face was flushed with sweat and rain and still I smiled almost gratefully at this picture of Diagon Alley so filled with life, in all its bustling glory.

I was a little hungry and I had a purpose for being here, and so I joined the people moving about.

Immediately I was swept away by the ever moving flux of people, coming and going to and from this illustrious street. As one of the many people well versed in steering through these streets with its many passersby, I had little trouble arriving where I needed to go to.

I made quick work out of purchasing the service of a couple of owls from Owl Post Office to send away my written replies, and then I returned to the street once more.

I had no business returning home, as I would only find my own thoughts lingering there, waiting for me to return, and so I paced with the crowd of people slowly through Diagon Alley. And here, all the things in the shop windows, and the items being sold in open crates in front of the shops, I knew them. I knew their purposes, I knew what to expect of them and what to do with them.

I was greeted here and there but I couldn't find it in me to stop for more than a quick 'Hello', and 'How do you do'. These people had their lives, and I had mine. They had their purposes for being here, and I had mine.

My steps led me astray from the mob's fixed path, and I came to a halt in front of the display window that held half a dozen of brooms. It was one of the newer shops, I knew.

From the shop some melody, a soft entrancing tune rang to my ears. The music was familiar yet I could not rightly place it within my memories.

Humming to the melody, did I I rest there for a moment, and my eyes, with the earnest interest of someone who had once played these games up high in the sky, traced every fine detail of the broom handles.

I imagined myself flying one of these modern models with their absurd speed, far beyond the brooms of my youth. They were the labourful products of the younger generation's interest to keep up with the speedjunkies in the non-magical world, and I understood this want too well on my own. I drank up these details, the finely crafted handle and the twigs that were waxed together, with fine gilden rings clasping a couple of them tight.

This was sacred work for a holy game of adrenaline and a life lived on the edge. And I missed it so dearly!

I imagined myself entering the shop and, as if the old age's dementia had gripped me, asking to ride one of their models for a test. I imagined myself searing like a sacred flame, blazing away in the sky with my last few heartbeats, and then I saw myself falling and falling, and I saw myself land much like Dumbledore, in a heap of bones looking peaceful with the smile of pure bliss upon my lips.

All of a sudden I became aware that I must have closed my eyes while imagining these things.

I opened them, not thinking of anything but the short moment of ecstasy I had seen myself live through just there, and then I saw it: a reflection of myself in the display window.

I saw my old and wrinkly face with the saggy skin, and I saw the murkiness of my eyes hidden underneath thick glasses. There was some crude desperation hidden in my features and I felt compelled to throw all my being into panic.

Yet nothing of the sort happened.

I gandered at my reflection, and my reflection at me. My eyes conveyed some quiet despair that was not born from fear, but rather from the memory that had joined my fancy.

It was a masked despair, and anyone but I myself would have missed it with their uncaring eyes, with their dismissive attitudes.

Then I blinked, and the despair was gone and in its stead an expectant look, defiance almost had settled upon my face. My eyes stared at me through the reflection and I stared back with vehemence.

This whole ordeal of thinking of my death, this whole begging for a gracious end, this surging yearning for vanity in death, it all was superficial and artificial, shallow and hopeless. I was a man, born without reason, and I too shall die without reason. This was but the natural order of things and no matter the despair of the philosophers to argue and think of a worth, a meaning to fill this gaping defective need of mankind to exist for reason, I had nothing to wager against fate in this battle against the unshirkable.

The memory of the shopman from the night before came to me and left as quick as it had come. He too had said the very same. And I felt like I had known it all along.

Still. The boy I had once been had deserved to die a death worth the prophecy he had shouldered, and indeed I had died that death.

And, against all odds, I had returned from death on my own volition. Now then, was it my own fault that I now struggled to find a meaning with the nearing, inevitable death that came with age?

I understood there and then why some people turned to religion in their last days. But not me, oh no. I would rather pray to the Elder Wand and the figures hidden within it before I turned to enter one of these gothic domes with their sentiments of forgiveness and martyr.

My mood turned sour once more. For now I was pitying myself. I was sad and sorry for how I had come to realise this unbearable difference between what I had been and what I now was.

There then, before my third eye, two lifesized idols came into existence. The left showed me at my happiest day in life. The right showed the me I had seen in the display's reflection a few seconds before.

These two pictures, I found taunting me with charming insolence, and still they showed naught but the truth I knew well enough. Both pictures were right. Both displayed me at my best and at my worst. Both clearly knew me and my nauseating existence better than anyone else.

These pictures coexisted in my head without any transition between them. I was either this or that. There was nothing in between. I was the good boy, the martyr, the hero or the old and world-weary Ex-Auror.

The man I had become was heresy to the boy I had been.

And I wasn't sure what to make of this realisation. The more I thought of it, the more I searched for some feeling that I could then forthwith associate with this realisation, the more disturbed I grew. My feelings on this matter seemed wrong, abnormal and fallacious.

The Ego that had been reawoken the night before duly reminded me of this.

I turned away from my withered face's reflection and the seeds of doubt that had always been there and only needed some water to spring to life, the hateful and treacherous ideas of my self-worth, the forgotten sentiments with their manifold complexity, and the absurd thoughts that were conjured from staring at it, and once more I joined the people marching about their merry ways.

What little hunger my body had worked up was gone, and the fulsome feeling of pyrosis had taken its place. I could taste the sour, bitter vapours of bile reaching their way up to my tongue and it fit well with how I felt too. It was a taste that resembled in its entirety my feelings there and then.

Again I was greeted, but hardly could I find it in me to stop for a chat. The lack of proper sleep the night before seemed to finally be catching up with me.

I returned the greeting and rejected the invitation to talk, citing plans that had already been made, and then went back to walk towards the exit of Diagon Alley.

From above, where the charmed sky mimicked a proper summer eve's firmament, I could see the twilight's approach with its faint but pure colours of red and orange and blue.

I hurried along, uncaring of the words that mayhaps were addressed at me, unheeding of the chatter and the elbows of the people. All these things were muted to my ears, blurred to my eyes and the sole focus I could muster was transfixed on the exit. I entertained the hope that a good night's sleep might get me and my thoughts away from the current predicament, back on track, back to focus on what was more important.

As I stepped back into the other world, the rain had stopped, and a thin rainbow was painting the sky where still a few rays of orange light gazed up from the rim of the world.

With ease I could have apparated to my home to find the much needed sleep within the comfort of my bed, yet my feet began to walk on their own.

There seemed no sense to it and yet it seemed prudent to me to pace the streets.

I dropped any and all thought about my reasoning and indulged in the mindnumbing sensation that came with traversing these familiar streets of my native city.

I stole myself through the narrow streets away from the Leaky Cauldron and its magical people, past the now alive signs, and the bright yellow lights in the display windows, past the restaurants and the snack bars.

Occasionally I glanced at these people hidden behind the glass, but no thought would spring up upon realising their existence, their faces. And when I was past the window I would have already forgotten their faces.

The memories of when life was different attempted to overcome the stupor. Faint reminders of Ginny and me on our first coupled outing, of Hermione and Ron, of how we danced, drank and then, when the questions of what had gone wrong arose, I refused these thoughts with vehemence. I refused to reflect on things I long since had found acceptance with.

Ah, forsooth, I had enough of these thoughts. They were much like a dull maze with crooked paths pulling me along into the dark. I refused the spirit of this idea; the spirit no matter how appealing with its fatalistic relation and its destiny to destroy my peace.

The understanding, that all of life's single moments are part of a wonderful, beautific part of reality, part of a greater play that indeed too shall fall to the morbid decay that comes with time, should, so I understood it, not be met with strangeness or hostility. The people, playing their parts in this reality, playing their parts in history, seemed inimical in their understanding of it.

All that is, eventually must end, and it always has been that way. That was in such a way true for all life, as even the most long lived among us magicals too would eventually find their way to the next grand adventure. However, the resignation -nay!- the surrender to this idea of fate was wrong, nonobligatory and supererogatory.

Indeed, the depression that this realisation often brought with itself, I found misplaced.

Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the most fundamental of all questions, so already had said Albert Camus, and he had said rightly so.

This question had first come to me hidden within the fabric of another question's cloth.

I had asked myself this question and its masquerading twin the morn of the day after facing the end of the bitter prophesied fate of the Boy-Who-Lived.

I always was able to see the memory of it as if I was standing there, watching myself waking in the morn with my face firmly planted in the damp moss with its earthy smell and the many small creatures crawling about it, and then too about my face. I always remembered it the way that I could listen to my own voice, listen to my own thoughts. It always was as if I was there and yet not, as if I had the position of a divine being holding vigil, as if I could see out of both our sets of eyes.

I could see him, my younger self, there, once awoken, testing his face with his fingers, with all the dirt and the wounds still on it, and then I could hear him forthwith catechize himself, if this all was real. The pain, the things he could hear surrounding himself. The noise of the trees, the chirping of the birds, the roaring of the beasts, even his own breathing. The smells he could smell, of the trees, of the many creatures living in this Forbidden Forest. All the sights that he could see surrounding him. Was any of it at all real enough for him to comprehend it beyond the tactile things his senses could make of them there and then? Was it as real as it could be or was it once more some thing that his mind had concocted to fancy himself a world not beyond his own understanding and comprehension, where he could meet his decision's reward?

Then, next I could see my younger self stumble from the deep end of the Forbidden Forest towards the Grounds of Hogwarts, and as he did so, he was found and welcomed, embraced and touched by Hermione and few others. Those people tasked with caring about the dead.

He could feel their touches, hear their breathing, smell them even, and still he could not rightly say if all this he saw and felt was real enough for him to accept it as reality.

This incalculable feeling that deprived his mind of the conclusion persisted with him from the moment of his waking, and it did not seem willing to let go of him.

Yet instead of giving in into this feeling, as I knew him being afraid of it, its tendencies and catastrophic nature, I could see him selling this moment of welcome short to overcome these wounds that seeped small amounts of blood still, to clean himself from the dirt, to tend to the hunger, and to wash away the hateful and distasteful things that clung to him.

I remembered this feeling to be always there, lingering just underneath the surface like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce its prey.

It had lingered like all the bad reasons I had seen for any action I could have taken. It had been a reminder for a world that I could have explained away, like an illusion I could have shattered at any given time, never to mend again.

Indeed, the Harry of then, young and eager as he was, feared the question of questions and what to make of it. He could have explained away the universe and all the lights in it, as some illusion of his mind, in which anyone but him was a stranger, an alien.

The I of then, too was afraid to confront this question for another intrinsic reason. The memory of then is clear to me: young Harry too was afraid that with this illusion, if it would shatter by his own hand's deed, his personality and all of it that made him him, would be gone with.

He was afraid that the personality he had cultivated through all these things in his life, meant nothing once the nature of reality and his existence with it, would be revealed to him. Was he still Harry Potter, the person he had known himself to be before the war? Or was he now someone else entirely, a new soul, formed from the unity that came within the heart and soul after giving himself to the the green light's cold grave. Was the soul in his chest, his own? Or was he now, so different he felt, a farcical dual-personality that never rightly would know where it belonged to?

This Harry had assigned himself the fear of this question to wear as a mantle, ill-suited for comfort, and yet all the same on his shoulders. It was a wild fear, hateful of the truth, and it felt unendurable to think of it. And so had he pushed it away, and away, and away. Until it was buried underneath all the important things that too demanded of him attention.

Indeed, it had taken quite some time for me to confront myself, and then this question too.

The I of when it happened was a bit older, yet young enough still. It had happened the day of my divorce that I no longer felt willing to run and hide from it.

This Harry then was more experienced. This Harry no longer laboured under the slavish encumbrance of his own survival and the means of which he had achieved such. This Harry knew now that life was not some delightful and engaging adventure, but rather apogee upon apogee of the strange and absurd. The Harry of then, in spite of all the seekers for his attention, the living horrors clad in human skin he had put to the jail, still had some inkling of hope within himself. This Harry, no matter how hardened he'd become to the wretchedness of life and all that was part of it, could not accommodate himself to the situation of this lingering question he lived with.

That was, until there then, numbed to the sensations of his senses, with the papers that separated the one union into two lives in his hands, did this Harry that I once was, realise the recurring disintegration of his life.

It happened to him once before, as it could happen to all people: all that he strove for with his being became utterly ruined before him and fell apart as he came to realise his own deficiency.

There then he faced this question of questions, and with it the divorce not only from Ginny but also from his own ideals and beliefs too.

And, quite so, from facing this question onward the Harry of then confronted himself steadily with all these things of life, and born from these confrontations was an understanding that all these oddities of life that seemed yet like torments, were still nothing but the tender touches of fortuity.

He there then found understanding, - nay! - acceptance within the idea that his life, like any a man's, was a compromise of things.

Any life was the cheated result of a game played without knowing its rules. An experiment of people who had made do with the cards they had been dealt with. It was the troublesome product of a union of things, beautiful yet heretic onto its ugly self and abstract to everything else.

And still life was some unfinished creation with uncountable distant possibilities, with dreaded desires, terrible agonies, and perverse ecstasies. It could be the suffocation of itself in a wishful atmosphere of goodwill and hatred, installed as an integral social mechanism of the isolated phenomenon that was human nature. It could be a flame on the verge of extinguishment while still casting shadows onto the tall wall of its history until the very last moment.

With all that life could be, there was no one true or absolute path for mankind to walk to their grave, there was no shortcut through the raging tempests and the violent storms that came with living with intensity.

There could be no substitute to experience what life was or could be without giving yourself consequently to the very nature of itself.

Such a life would have the potential to be more than a virtuous and comfortable man's life, it would be more than the responsibility to oneself, it would be a life lived for all that was life and all that was alive, for the world and all the great numbers of things in it. It would be a life that would be worth to survive for, a life that provided meaning within itself, a life that did not yearn to search for a moment of escapist humor in the outside world. Such a life could be a good life, with reconcilement, shining brilliance and the possession of sense of self.

This life then would be lived as if possessed by a manmade god, and it would have the potential to be great.

All in all, was to be said, that nobody was who they wished to be, however earnestly they had tried, and this Harry too was only who he was and not who he wished to be.

And from this realisation onwards the I of then understood, two paths could be taken.

This Harry could then either wallow in these realisations and entertain these ideas and fictive ministrations on his mind about all the potential things he could have done and what could have come of them, or he could accept all of it as part of what he was, and from there on take it one step at a time into the future.

Thusly, no other options his thoughts left him with. And I still wholeheartedly agree with this reasoning, for despite all these things that have happened to the I of now, the I of then, the I of my youth, I had always went along with my path through my life, one step at a time without having the cruel plan to master the play's field before I had stepped upon in.

This Harry had fulfilled his prophesied duty to himself, the world and any potential Harry of the future, and it had left him with the question if he within this reality of him, was real too.

Though, all this thinking, all this contemplating had little meaning if magic could easily have implanted these thoughts and reasonings within young Harry's mind. This thinking, could not prove his existence to him. Such was the terrible but fantastic nature of magic.

He never could argue as Descartes had done. He could never prove his own existence from his own thinking, too much he had endured, seen, been host to. Too many times his mind had not been his own.

The I of then, quite frustratedly with himself, had asked what use this contemplating had.

What if all of this (reality) indeed was naught but a dream? What if all his life until then had been a dream, and in truth he was still huddled to his cot in the cupboard underneath the stairs, thinking of these fantastic and terrible things, for his mind was free?

What if he was still settled around the Bonfire of the Insane, leaning close to his knees to keep himself warm and as far away from the darkness as he could, - and next to him Malfoy and Dumbledore too, - what if he had given in to the trauma?

The answer to these questions had been quite simple, truth be told.

Indeed, the Harry of then, quite unsure of what to make of all of this, had asked himself if the knowledge that his existence was not foreordained, directed by strings attached to his limbs - he had asked himself if this sort of knowledge was truly necessary for his existence.

Could he not simply live without scraping at the walls of this prison that was reality?

Could he not throw away the discontent about his own existence? Could he not forgive himself for his own self? Could he not overcome all of it and simply live?

It seemed quite impossible to him to realise anything close to some form of truth in this matter. And so, with the knowledge that there was if ever an opportunity, then now, this Harry took the present occasion and vanished his doubt by choosing not to care.

There was no dramatic struggle, no metaphysical fight of the giants in his head, no epic battle upon a hill, reason against conviction, no, it simply happened. It seemed an oddly obvious, yet inescapable solution. Yet there was no blind obsession, no want to simply be done with all of it. No, this Harry had thought of it and he had overcome the petty outrage such thinking could bring with it.

Indeed, I had given this decision quite some thought. The conclusion again and again had been that I didn't care if my life was reality or some illusion.

I had realised that my life was connected to the lives of all the other peoples as they too were connected to me.

I had understood that decisions never were my own, rather were they influenced and shared as were the consequences of these decisions not my own, but too were they shared with all the other living beings in my sphere of influence.

It all was fated. Despite my reluctance to use this word in such a manner, could I indeed not find a better way to describe this. It was fate. Yet not the sort of fate of which I always had dreaded to think of, with its fatalistic ideas of destiny, and prophecy. Nay, this was a fate that way solely of human making, and I from then on had accepted this for what it was.

Consequently the I of then found happiness. Mind you, it was not the sort of happiness that would have had me jump about my merry way, it was not the blurry happiness that would have had conjure me a Patronus, no indeed not. Instead it was a feeling of acceptance, of pure and undiluted acceptance of all that was. It was a feeling that would keep with me until my last days. I would call it then felicity.

It was a feeling that taught me that evil and good were concepts without meaning beyond one a person's personal point of view, without meaning beyond their own understanding.

There was nothing truly evil, nothing absolute good. And I had found that I was okay with that. I accepted it, and I didn't mind it.

I was happy for all that I was, for who I would be, for who I had been. I was happy for the past, for the short time I had been able to spend with Sirius before he was gone. I was happy for the moments in which I had been able to meet with the spirits of my parents. I was happy for being able to meet Cedric Diggory before he had joined the Orcus. I was happy for the short moment of marriage, with its ups and downs. I was happy for raising Teddy as my own son. I was happy for the moments in which we had shared laughter and tears. I was happy for knowing that my son would survive me, well cared for with his own little family. I was happy for all these things, that were positive memories and negative memories. I was happy for all of it, no matter if it had me sway drunken on my hormones, or if it had me rage and cry out in despair.

I was happy remembering all of these things, as they made me who I was.

All of these things had led my existence to the point at which I now was.

The sum of all these memories, the sum of all events that have happened, have made me me: Harry Potter.

I was nothing less, nothing more, and I had found my peace within that knowledge.

This feeling of felicity, I wanted to last forever. I wanted to grasp it tight to my chest, and cradle it against my skin out of fear it might be blown away by the weakest breeze of my own thoughts, and yet I was utterly convinced that this feeling would stay with me until my last breath, because it existed uniquely in me and was not made from anything but my own thoughts.

From this feeling I had drawn the strength to live a life without caring if it had any worth beyond its own existence. From this feeling I had drawn the belief that even if my life's worth would have only been for the sake of others, it would have been worth it.

Furthermore, from this feeling I learned, that only I had the might to abjure my life's meaning, and in consequence, only I had the power to grant myself freedom from the shackles that my thoughts could conjure.

And now then, in my old age, have these feelings of acceptance yet to wither away. I mentioned it before. These taunting thoughts often would attempt to overcome me, but this feeling stood with me, keeping vigil, and it was strong still.

I, of course, was like any a man not infallible and would find myself tempted to think of this and that, and let my thoughts wander. Yet I always found this feeling of acceptance return me to the hearth of my soul.

This beacon's light then returned me tout de suite to the reality of my own choosing, and with it some energy too filled me once more. The tiredness I had felt before was mostly gone from my old bones.

Very suddenly, a clear bell's chime sounded from next to me and I found myself blinking awake from the trance in which I had wandered these streets.

And lo and behold, I was stood before a familiar door. It was made from blackened wood, with some small and painted glasses in its middle.

The memory of the night before came rushing to me and indeed, on the inside too was light, and above the door hung a dead gas lantern, and there was the cast iron sign with its cursive white lettering too.

It was the Freudenfeuer, the place for the strange, the absconder and those of a certain artful quality to them, it was the place I had fled from.

Yet my mind was quiet. No thoughts of the feeling of incongruousness, displacedness from the night before remained with me. I felt like a washed cloth, like a bleached paper. Fresh and anew, and without anything bearing down on me as I saw this door.

And again I thought I could feel this tantric tingling of my magic spreading through my hands, as if I was holding onto the Elder Wand, yet before the curiosity of this event could reach to my head, the bell chimed once more.

Then, all of a sudden in front of me stood the hearty shopman with his thin mustache waxed and combed, and with his long hair falling artfully to his shoulders.

The man smiled brazenly upon spotting me, and so he said, "Aha! The wise wolf returns! And again he is prowling the dark!"

He then set about lifting a long metal hook to pull down the gas lantern and with quick and well-practiced movements lit it alight. And there then again, it cast its yellow light upon the blackened wooden door, much like the night before.

I stared at him as he worked his routine and felt betrayed by my own two feet for walking me to this place again. When I noticed him having finished his task, I greeted him in return.

"Yes, well," said I with some attempt at humour. "My rebellion has yet to acquire vogue, I'm afraid."

"Or is it destiny, once more," countered he with laughter on his face. He then stepped back to the door and held it open and with a grand gesture beckoned me to enter. "Now then! You left so quickly before, my good Sir. Won't you come in and share with me the details of your rebellion?"

"Maybe it is. All the same, thank you for the invitation. But what do you expect there to be to say? I am not one to pour out my heart to strangers."

My feet moved before my mind could find objection with this action. I walked past the man and felt the warmth of the store wash over me. It smelled much like the night before of freshly burnt tobacco and there too was the smell of a few other spices I could not rightly put.

The man followed behind and closed the door. He hurried past me deeper into the room, past the shelves and all the assorted items in their boxes.

I noticed some music being played quietly in the background and again I wondered why it sounded so familiar to me.

When he spoke, his voice reached me from afar. He said, "Indeed? But we are no more strangers, are we? We have met before, my good Sir, and we have talked. That ought to make us more than strangers, don't you think so too?"

Well, I could not rightly refute the man's logic there. It was quite true what he said. We had conversed about more than just his wares. Still that did not make us more than strangers.

"But we don't know each other's names," said I with protest.

"A matter easily corrected!"

"Well, yes." I hedged. "Yes. Fair enough, I suppose. Who are you then?"

I reached the counter and wondered for a brief moment where the man was when suddenly he appeared from underneath it.

"I am the owner of this respectable premise. Rarely do people call me anything but 'you'. And what about the wise wolf, my good Sir? Shall I call him 'Akela'?"

He straightened up as he spoke and put down a tobacco pouch and next to it a well-used pipe.

I regarded him as his hands moved to straighten out his shirt and the west he wore over it, and to my shame must I say, I did not mind that he did not tell me his name. He seemed the sort of man that wore a guise with the public and I was not one to begrudge him this.

"While it certainly is flattering, he usually goes by 'Harry'."

"Well then, my good Harry. Tell me of your rebellion. Is it one of the bloody sort with cannons and pitchforks and torches? Or is it the quiet sort where you sit alone and protest with the oppressive force of your silence?"

He gazed at me with his infuriating smile before he corrected himself. "I say! Forgive my forgetfulness. Your rebellion was of the deadly sort, wasn't it?"

His hands set about preparing his pipe.

"No more deadly than old age," said I with no little irritation.

To that the man nodded. He then finished rolling the tobacco before he put it into the pipe's head. From somewhere he produced a tobacco tamper and put it to work.

"This is true. Old age kills more people than anything else. So this is what your rebellion is about? An escape from old age?"

He hummed as he put away the tobacco and the tamper too.

"No," said he. "You don't strike me the like of a person. You said it the night before, you don't fear Death. Is it about control then? Do you rebel against the lack of control that dying of old age brings?"

"It is about having a choice. I said so before if my memory serves me right."

"Yes! Yes! You are right, of course. How could I forget? - So then, how is it coming along? Do you feel in control yet? Have you had your choice yet?"

He mocked me with his words and his smile and his easy posture, yet there was warmth in his too bright eyes. He seemed amused and curious and caring, and I found myself not minding his mockery of my thoughts.

His pipe went alight and he puffed on it and blew the smoke into the room.

"Yes and no." I said it with a shrug and he laughed at my words. "I ought to know once I am dead, nay?"

"No matter then. I am quite sure you will find what you are looking for yet. I was quite saddened to see you leave so soon last night, but I was sure you would return eventually," said he to encourage me and then he made a show of his palms, gesturing to me, the pipe stuck between his teeth.

"Oh? Why were so sure of it? But I dare you to say 'destiny' once more!"

"That's easy to answer. I saw it in your eyes! You had this look of interest and I simply knew you would return."

Reminded of the night before I felt self-conscious again. The moment was gone when the man puffed on his pipe and blew the smoke up into the air.

I rounded at him, "True enough, I suppose. I was interested in the costume. The black one with the gilden mask. And you had pulled me away from it!"

The man chewed down on the pipe's mouthpiece as he frowned.

"Was it then my fault that you left so quickly? Oh my. I've bothered you with my talking and made you go, haven't I? That wasn't my intention."

He looked dismayed at me. I took heart and laughed and waved his worries away.

"What's done is done. I am here again. But I will admit I was not happy to hear that there was a condition to purchasing the costume."

"It showed," said he as he put down his pipe to the counter. The brazen smile returned. "There, just now. You were in control of yourself. Bravo, I must say! Not many people can show such a strength in character. They would have denied their own shortcoming."

I rolled my eyes at him, and for a short moment found myself surprised at this silly and juvenile reaction of me. But I daredn't dwell on these thoughts as the man picked up his pipe again and moved out from behind the counter.

"But, I caused you distress where you sought peace of mind! I shall make you a gift for an apology," declared he and walked past me.

"Unnecessary!" I cried after him but he seemed not to listen. In truth I felt uncomfortable with the idea of receiving some such material compensation for my own failure. The fault lay not with the man, in my understanding. It had been me! "We've just spoken of it and I am not upset at you! You needn't gift me anything!"

"Don't be silly, my friend. An apology is easy! I give it freely, you accept it and then the matter is done with, and we speak no more of it!"

"But we could to that without some gift! I don't need anything from you for it!"

I saw him return as he spoke.

"Indeed? Is my intention then not good enough for you? And there I had praised your strength of character! A bit too early, it seems now. Just accept the gift and we can move on and have some fun with our company, why don't you?"

The man walked behind the counter with his fist closed tight around some small object. He held the pipe in his mouth's corner, and he looked quite coldly at me. He then opened his hand and placed down on the counter the piece of black marble he had told me a story of on my night before.

"It is not a wolf, o' Akela, but I think it suits you."

"I can't accept this," mammered I with wide eyes, and I held my free hand up in a gesture of surrender at him. "You told me it's a dear piece to you."

"Oh! It is, yes. And still, you will accept it," said he and his hand pushed the piece of marble over the counter. "Take it and put it away in your mantle and we will be done with this matter."

I hesitated. It didn't seem right to me, and yet I wanted to obey in some momentary impulse.

"It's name is Schnitter, you'll take it, and place it somewhere at home and whenever you walk past it, you'll think of this moment and you'll know that I was right. Go on, take it!"

He commanded it and I felt compelled to listen to him. His voice held authority, and his face too was of the sort reminding me with dulled memories of my old teachers.

He eyed me, and I felt truly like a child for that short moment in which I hastily moved to grab the little statue of a dog and I made to put it away in my clothes.

It sat heavy in my wooly coat, and for a queer moment thought myself young again, wearing the Locket of Slytherin around my neck, with the Horcrux still in it. And then the moment was gone and with it all the memories of it and this moment's feeling of malaise too.

And I could hear the music in the background rising to a crescendo. As it peaked, the man nodded satisfied at my actions.

Then the door's bell chimed and the heavy atmosphere of the situation broke. I glanced over my shoulder and there I saw the man from the night before, with his white hair. He was already busying himself with the books.

"You do seem to have frequent customers." I commented with a smile.

The shopman seemed quite familiar with his habitués.

"Oh yes, they always return. You too have returned, Harry. Like I said, it is destiny throwing us a chance to meet and greet."

"And to shop," said I, only to rap my cane to the counter. "I would take a look around, if you don't mind, to see if I can't find me something of interest."

"Oh by all means! Go right ahead, and gander these wares. Perhaps fate shall permit you to find some inspiration for your little rebellion?"

"If all your sales are fated, then I fear for your future." I offered it with a humouring smile.

This talk of fate and destiny, I found less vexatious than the night before, for it seemed some odd quirk to the man to assume these things to be something ubiquitous. Or mayhaps I was less high-strung, less taunted by my own thoughts. I could not and did not want to think of it anymore. I have had enough of all these salomonian words for the day.

The man laughed and grinned, all teeths as I turned to walk from the counter, still I felt his eyes on me until I was out of sight.

Now that I was richer by a few heavy ounces of black marble in the shape of a dog, ill-gained as it was, the duty of purchasing something was moving me. It seemed only right that I would spend some coin here.

I walked towards the shelves on the offside to the entrance, past the man who I found stuck with a book in his face. As I passed him I shuddered upon reading the title, Faust, Die Tragödie. It was Goethe's Faust. And in German too. This man, I thought, must be some masochist to read it.

Or mayhaps in truth I was the masochist, for my steps lead me to the section of the shop with the wardrobes in them, and I could already spot what drew me to them.

The music's tune rose and fell once more and my attention returned to the odd feeling of annoyance that I felt for a short moment. I abhorred this Déjà-écouté! The origin of the melody eluded me, yet I knew it well enough to hum along.

I steered my feet's direction away from the mask and its costume, away from the temptation they held to me and with it these memories from the night before.

Instead I browsed chest to shelf, shelf to shelf. My mind grew quiet when nothing caught my eye. I was a wretched hunter. Like a toothless old hound instead of a wolf, searching for something of interest. A bone to suckle on, for the wise Akela, or maybe an arranged trophy for the gameless hunter prowling the night once more.

I stared at the clepsammias, the little statues of ramheads and vultures. They were placed on a small book. It's cover was dirty with dust and yet I could read it well enough. The Divine Comedy.

I found myself rolling my eyes.

Each and every of these pieces contaminated with some abstract esthetic, cruel and macabre but all too fitting in with these masks behind my back, filled these shelves, all of them I found, with a peculiar atmosphere.

They all were of the same kind in their nature, their meaning. Broken or destroyed though they looked, their symbolic influences were wholly understandable. Yet where I knew these figures to paint a clear picture of a certain doctrine, or rather belief, I had no mind for such things. These few little statues with their designs in resemblance of vanitas could not arouse or create more than some mild amusement in me.

Sure enough, they all were as proficiently carved as the marble in my pocket and yet I was not drawn to them as I felt drawn to the mask behind me.

It was there and it was waiting for me, or so I dreaded to think. It was there and it hung there on the wall with its lifeless eyes, and it was waiting for me to pick it up.

I moved away from the quisquilian odds and sods and when I came upon the tall mirror with its old and badly polished surface, I stared at it. It reminded me of the Mirror of the Erised.

Yet this mirror, by no means was of any sort magical, I can assure you, and yet I saw in it some distorted and disturbed vision of myself.

My eyes were clouded with seriousness, and my posture was hunched to the cane. The reflected I looked waxen and tired, yet I felt spry and awake. I glared at this insolent picture of myself with confidence. This reality of the mirror was just a hollow reflection of myself. It did not correspond with my reality. It was a picture etched into the metal, obeyed by laws of nature and nothing more was there to it.

Then I blinked and a glimpse of understanding hushed over the features of the reflection. And for one twisted moment I found it not to correspond with anything I could imagine.

There then was a flash of green light in the reflection and I flinched from it.

I blinked once more and lead at the ring of my nose that was obsession did my eyes stare back into the mirror.

There then I saw these two idols of myself as if they were some spiritual selves of me, caught in this whimsical silver, like some hysterical vision I had dreamt up to fancy me some entertainment. And in truth, I could not resist this temptation to think of it, as I stared at these figures my mind had conjured.

The young Harry, and the old I, face to face.

Then the young Harry held the gilden mask and he wore the suit and I chuckled at the smile on his face. It was the brazen smile of my host and, I permit myself to say, young Harry wore it well.

The scene in the mirror became more and more surreal. The young Harry, I was less and less able to associate me with. All these features that would mark us as the same person, the same eyes, the same scars, the same distinctive things, they suddenly were fixed on him and not with me. He was whole, hearty and healthy as can be. He was life itself, given form with his new smile, brazen and knowing.

The old Harry I could see, the I that I knew myself to be - nay! - the idol I could the closest associate with the current me, he only stood there with the Elder Wand in hand,and stared with some expectant look at me. Yet I knew not what he was expecting of me. Did he want me to descry my youth once more? Did he want the heartfelt wisdom that age is but a number to overcome me with artless grace? Was he hoping with his look to challenge me and through that this my hysterical vision of himself, and had I, or he, then the conscious intention of bespelling me with some magic to make me more than I was?

No, I could not surrender myself to this thinking again. I could not sacrifice this my felicity for some elusive thinking, where my heart and mind would be torn at my ideas that would come like bare shadows from the depth of my soul. I could not surrender to this agitation and its impulses that would be like a haze of pleasurable torture on my mind.

Then these thoughts of my grand finale came to me once more, like a gift wrapped up a-proper, and like a living, breathing, fleeting moment, they beguiled me, ensnared me with their highest wisdom, with their disarming quality, with their happy attitude, and then the moment broke as the door's bell chimed once more and I was returned to stare at the oddly shaped vision of myself and only myself in this silvery mirror.

My reflection blessed me with its scornful look and I received it with no little amusement.

Young Harry raised his wand and with green light he ended the old idol.

I suddenly felt the urge to rub at my eyes. Had I seen right?

"Ah, there you are, my good Harry. Have you found then something of which I could tempt you to purchase it? Oh, are you alright? Got sand in your eyes?"

I blinked once more and the feeling was gone. I spotted next to me in the mirror, my host, standing slightly behind me with a bright smile.

"Thank you for asking, I feel better now," said I. "Though I have not found anything as of yet."

"Then my timing indeed is good, for I have found something that might interest you, Harry!"

"Indeed?" I asked it with raised eyebrows and I stared through the mirror at the man.

"Oh yes! Yes! You see, I remembered the play to which the mask and the dress belong to," said he. "And I thought to myself I ought have remembered it before. But alas! I had not, and so I fetched it from where I had stowed it away."

He then forthwith procured a thin blue pamphlet from where it was tucked underneath his arm.

"What's it called, by the way," asked I lightly. I, too, should have asked the night before.

"Grand Finale!"

"Grand Finale!" I repeated after him. The words felt right to me, and I repeated them once more. "Grand Finale! It's got a wonderful name. I can already imagine it!"

A sudden rush of emotion set my heart to beat wildly and I turned around, and with some eager look in my eyes did I stare at the papers in his hands. For indeed I could imagine my grand finale within these papers.

"Yes! Do you wish to have it? I can tell you what's it about if you'd like."

I stared at the blue paper cover for a few seconds. Yes, yes of course I wished to have it. The sudden chance to read of what play the mask and its dress belonged to, and the other things too, were very inviting indeed. So I said, "It's for sale then? And yes, do tell, just don't you spoil it for me!"

He opened the pamphlet before me and carefully moved his fingers over the paper, as if he was tracing the lines of text. He smiled and his eyes blinked to me.

"You will enjoy it, Harry. It has a spirit of rebellion with it too. I read just now a few words of it and I can feel the spirit within already trying to burst from me. A thousand voices within the play are crying out. I can hear the infernal composition it wants to be. Do you wish to have it then?"

He then shut the pamphlet and laughed at my expression.

"I will take it! I will take it! For how much are you willing to sell it?"

"This is the only copy I have, I'm afraid. It won't come cheap."

Involuntarily a gasp of dismay left my mouth. Right away I hung my cane to my arm and took to rummaging my pockets for some money. I could not find much and as my shoulders slumped I entreated him, "Can you keep it for me? I don't have much other than a handful of coins on me! I could return in about an hour, mayhaps two with more money!"

I looked at him, and though I saw him smile his brazen smile, there was a hint of more in his eyes. I could not rightly put it that very moment, but his answer left me with a feeling of delight a few seconds later.

"Ah! Ah! Harry, it is worth a lot more money than you could procure for it. I say, I'll gift it to you for a promise. What say you? It's a fair trade, don't you think? A bit of a paper for a promise?"

"I couldn't let you gift me some more," I said in alarm.

"A trade, Harry," said he gently. "I remind you, this will be a bargain. Struck between you and me. Between two Gentleman. You shall pay for it, yet not with coin or paper, but with your promise. It's fair, don't you think?"

I did. It was fair. In my eyes and to my ears in that moment, it was very fair. I wanted, and I needed this play to be mine, at least for a few hours to read through it and to understand it and the part of the mask and the dress.

"Splendid," he cried. He offered me his hand to shake and I did. "It's a promise then! Here, take it and be happy with it, Harry. Destiny knows, it has sat around for long enough with me. Mayhaps you'll be happy with it."

I broke from the haze of delight and dropped his hand.

"What's the promise?"

He smiled his brazen smile and he held out the pamphlet for me to take. I took it, of course, as I had made the promise already. The deal had been made, for good or for worse, yet still, the papers were mine and I was to read them.

I felt not little wary, yet I cared little of the consequences. There was still no magic or some other foolish trickery with runes or some such other craft afoot, and so I was secure with the knowledge that I could defend myself if the need were to arise.

"I'll tell you once you've read it. Don't you worry, my good Harry. It won't be much a hardship for you to follow the promise I'll ask you to keep. There now, you ought to think about getting yourself home and mayhaps sleep a few hours before you dive into this play."

The man then, much like before took me by my arm and gently lead me through his little shop until we came to the door. There he let go of me and opened then the door for me.

I found I minded not that our business was concluded. The truth was indeed that the urge to hurry home and make a night of reading out of the remaining hours of darkness was too tempting to pass it off.

I turned to leave and made a step outside. Then I turned around, and with some sudden haste born from earnest curiosity asked I, "Why do you speak of destiny so much?"

It was a sudden question, that I understood. Yet the need to ask had overcame me the moment the man had presented me the folded papers with their blue cover. And it had pressed onto me until I had given my voice to this question.

"Ah! You are not the first to ask, Harry. Don't you think to know the answer to that question already? You seem like a learnt man, I say."

"Is it your shibboleth then?" I asked this with a frown. And rightly could I not say if his expression was one of surprise or shame.

Then he laughed at me.

"Ask me again the next time Harry, once you have slept some hours. Good luck with your control, Harry. And do enjoy the magic of the play, will you?"

I wished him a good night and when I glanced over my shoulder the door was closed already. And before I knew it my feet made to carry me home.

When I entered my house I, for the sake of haste, set to use my magic. My wand was directing the magic, and rightaway the fire returned to the masonry stove and a set of blue flames came to life and made to brighten the rooms.

I took the little marble statue from my coat and placed it with the pamphlet next to my armchair, underneath the light of a glass vase with flames dancing about.

Next then, with some hot tea prepared and a few biscuits to keep me fed through the night sat I in my armchair.

In my lap lay the blue pamphlet.

I felt sick now that I had this play within my grasp, this little pack of papers with all its details of the play and the role of the mask and the costume within it.

I rested my hands on my legs and my elbows on the armrests.

It was a feeling of undirected remorse that I felt, and it made me sick to the stomach. It felt as if I had already read this thin pamphlet and its text and I felt irresistibly crestfallen, yes, disenchanted even, with the magic that the mask and the costume had summoned from my soul to live in my mind.

This feeling and the hesitance, the fear that it would not live up to my expectations was unfounded, I knew it well enough. And so, I fixed my eyes on the blue cover. Then, unable to hold back any longer I lifted it to my eyes and read aloud the little black printing, "Grand Finale."

From around me the silence very suddenly weighted down on me. This wouldn't do. I needed all my attention on this play! It was my lifeline, my all, my this every moment!

I dropped the pamphlet and picked up the Elder Wand to make me some music play away this silence. It was the same song as the night before, and it picked up where I had left it.

Once that was done I wiped down my sweaty palms and picked up the cover again. The music picked up and I, with a deep breath to fortify my will, popped open the cover.

\- ACT I -  
JUVENESCENCE

All of a sudden a flash of haunting light forced me to blink and when it was gone I sat in absolute darkness.

The pamphlet was gone from my hands and I felt myself stuck to my seat. All my thoughts left me as I realised my state.

I could not form more a thought of these things I had read than I could bear to think where I was or how I had come to be there.

I stared ahead, around, wherever my eyes permitted me to see.

It seemed to me as if the world was sleeping, and then, with a sound that resembled a loud light switch, blissful soft light greeted me. Odd scents and sounds joined the illumination and then, before me, a wide stage opened up and spotlights sprang to life.

Four of these strong illuminators were casting their shine to the crimson red drape with their white dots of light meeting in its middle.

From above the drape a sign, attached to two long chains, was lowered down.

I read it quickly, so as not to miss anything on the stage before me:

EMBRACE DEATH ALL YOU WHO LIVE HERE

As I read it, the drape rose up and disappeared in the dark of the sky above.

Next the spotlights moved.

There then stood one familiar silvery mirror and in front of it stood a naked person with their back to me. Their posture was bent forward, and they leaned heavily onto the frame of the mirror. And though I could not say if they were young or old, weak or strong, male or female, for the light of the spotlights cast their face and all these fine details of their body into shadows, I saw their skin to glow with gilden shine.

The body moved slowly, as if their breathing was laboured, and with every movement the silence stretched into some tense moment of anticipation.

Suddenly a fifth spotlight sprang to life in the middle of the stage, and its light was thrown on a gilden mask that I found afloat in the middle of the stage, well above the ground.

I felt myself lose any sense of time as I stared through the dark onto this illuminated stage, and I couldn't say for how long I already sat there. Maybe it had been mere moments, maybe it had been one eternity or another.

I observed the figure doing the act, and I observed all the little details that came to live behind the mask and between it and the figure.

There was a corridor that led away painted to some wall, and there was a tall wooden clock dangling from the sky. There were a few candles hovering above the ground and there too were a few shadows dancing in the in and out of the light.

Then there was some pervading sense of urgency I could make out and then, the clock struck twelve times and the toll resounded with force through the darkness I sat in.

As if brought to life by some hidden strings, the figure in front of the mirror straightened up and extended their arm. Pale fingers snipped once. Immediately the mask sailed into the hand, and was then forthwith raised to be placed onto the hidden face. A dark cloth I had not noticed before was then draped about the head with its dark and wild hairs.

"THIS IS REAL!" They shouted very suddenly and their voice was even and strong and warm and deep and it engrossed me! The force of their shout ringed through the dark and resounded back with a myriad of echoes.

Immediately after, a gossamer veil, like a shadow of paperthin dark floated down on them and then, with a loud beat on a kettledrum, did the veil burst alive with flames. As suddenly as it had happened, the flames were gone and the figure was stood fully clad in the dress I had adored, had wanted for myself.

"This is real," they said once more, and this time it was just a whisper that reached far and wide above the stage until it reached me too.

It cradled my eardrums, it made me shiver and sweat and I dared not to breath as I stared upon the spiel in front of me, and suddenly flames sprang to life and encased the mirror.

Then it was gone and the flames with it. The figure, now dressed properly turned around and, slowly, as if they were testing out their body, stalked about the stage. The spotlights thrown on them, wandered the light through the dark with the gilden masked actor. They walked to the clock and stared at it for a few moments, as if to contemplate the time, then they turned around and stared in my direction.

"Hark now and heed to what you are told. It seems your end came a long time ago. Yet! Despair me not! For I gift this to you! Anew you shall rise, you who have lived for the right time. Anew you shall rise! Your death, oh praise be onto it, shall be the best."

The wooden surface on which they stood made strange sounds as they shifted their weight, and I found my concentration break under these sounds of agony.

Then their voice drifted towards me again, and they said, "You who died voluntarily! Come to heal, come to feel!"

Gilden eyes with gilden shine in the slits of the gilden mask seemed to be transfixed on me, even so I thought myself to me fully cast into the darkness. Could they see me still?

"You! Tarry no more! Confess for me! You long for it?" They asked me with honest curiosity peaking their voice and then stalked with quick movements forward until they stood five to six feet before me. "I will make you feel it, this burning sensation of heat and fire in your chest! I will present it to you, with grand and artful drama and you and me, we both together, shall burn ourselves through the night into the next morning!"

After a few seconds of silence, they bowed deeply and when they straightened up and gilden eyes burnt with some incomprehensible moving light.

"On behest of life itself, in the silence of this stage's darkness we shall play our game for tonight. All that you but can think of we shall exercise without care for caution. - We shall play for tonight, the anthem of all that is your life. And I ask you to embrace it's cruel tune and hang onto every sound, for when it stops we too shall be done with it all. And when it's done, no mourning shall fill this place, instead we shall laugh and be alive until the final drape falls. - Are we agreed?"

Silence reigned upon the stage. All I heard was my own shallow breathing, and the quiet hum of the spotlights, the wasteful pounding of my heart and the trickle of blood that pushed through my body.

Were they expecting me to give answer? I could not say, yet when I stared up at the gilden eyes boring down on me, I could feel my head nod slowly and quite without my bidding.

With sweeping motion they bowed once more, and then, with quick movement hurried to the edge of the stage and held out their hand for me to grasp.

"Come! Embrace it! Free choice! Free Will! Free Soul! One play to be played forever! Come now, it's your time to step up for yourself!"

Their words of encouragement mattered little in that moment. I felt my arms and legs tremble, my back ache, and in my head a dull pain drummed with the beat of my heart against the thick of my skull's bone. I sat there ramrod stiff, aching with age and at magic's will forced into the seat, and all I could do was stare ahead at this person.

All my life's miserable thoughts flashed through my head. All these things I had thought the hours and the days before, I remembered and discarded right away. Nothing mattered. I was happy. All was permitted. I gave myself to this rebellion!

My eyes met theirs, and finally, at last magic's curse lifted from my body. My arm moved and I grasped their hand and rose from my place in the darkness into the shining light of the eternal stage.

Some unspoken spell, without wand or gesture let me climb to the stage in one quick motion and when I stood next to them, I could feel them radiating warmth, comfort, compassion, peace and so much more.

"So let us pray to tonight's idol!" They said it with force and their deep voice rumbled over the stage like a wave breaking onto the shore.

Their words washed over me, and suddenly I found I knew the words to this prayer, and so I joined with them.

They chanted aloud and with them, a thousand voices rose and joined in, "Mighty Phoînix rise! Take us to the sky! Flames be your wings! You are eternal to us kings!"

As they fell silent, a familiar sight appeared well above them in a show of colours.

It was the puppet of the Phoînix I had seen hang above the counter of the Freudenfeuer, alive and aflame with all the colours of scalding hot heat. Its wings were beating slowly, and with every single movement of these wings of pure flames, embers of sizzling liquid fire dripped into the air below, only to dissipate into nothingness.

The Phoînix opened its beak and the long blackened canine fangs shone with simmering heat and then, a cry of airquaking power erupted from within the beast. Just as if all the mystical creatures and a dozen or more of these pure beings of fire and life had come to join me as witnesses to this momentarily event of catharsis, a grand flame encased the Phoînix, and within half a second it burnt away into nothingness.

The cry returned, and within voices carried power. They sang some unearthly song, a whisper above a whisper above a whisper, like echoes of something that should have never been spoken:

DU MUSST VERSTEHN!  
AUS EINS MACH ZEHN,  
UND ZWEI LASS GEHN,  
UND DREI MACH GLEICH,  
SO BIST DU REICH.  
VERLIER DIE VIER,  
AUS FÜNF MACH SECHS,  
SO SAGT DIE HEX,  
MACH SIEBEN UND ACHT,  
SO IST'S VOLLBRACHT:  
UND NEUN IST EINS,  
UND ZEHN IST KEINS.  
DAS IST DAS HEXENEINMALEINS!"

Suddenly I thought myself alone, and in quick succession one spotlight after another the lights went out until only the weak glowing embers of hot cinders remained.

Ten in the number drifted through the air, dancing driven by their own heat from left to right until they touched to my skin, my shoulders, my hair and all the other parts of me offering surface.

I felt feverish, for I knew all these words!

Sweat was wetting my skin and tremors of unearthly, indescribable feelings shook my body.

I understood, with the faintest traces of lucidity that were left with me, that this was a ritual of fire, magic and pain. And the toll to fuel this magic was yet to be paid!

A tithe of my sanity was the price for every flake of ash, and before realisation could spread within and through me, I was aflame and all of me burnt with madness.

I fell to the ground. There was no faking this biting sensation of pure heat. The flames were everywhere, on my skin, in my throat, in my chest and on my arms and legs, and all of me was ablaze with the conflagration of the firebird's ash.

But then, as I writhed around, I heard magic speak to me, and it said "Be strong!" It said in a whisper of ice on my mind and hoarfrost on my soul, "Be strong, you have had worse than this."

And so I was strong. I endured, for I remembered my own words that pain was temporary, I remembered the virtue that called for temperance in the face of pain, and just as it became too much, just as I neared the edge of what my mind could comprehend, could shoulder with its sensation of agony, just before I gave into the blissful oblivion of death of mind, body and soul I smelt cinnamon, olibanum, and amomum instead of my scorched flesh and abruptly, as sudden as these smells had come, the flames were gone and all the pain with them.

I lay there, for hours, a day, a minute, maybe a few seconds. Time lost its meaning as I breathed in, long and slowly, and out, with shudders wrecking my being.

Very slowly I came back into my own, and I realised three things: I was alive, my body was naked and it was dark around me.

The cold sensation of my bare skin against the air made me shiver, yet all these odd sensations that had piled up over decades, the stinging in my joints, the aching in my lower back, the slight throbbing in my pelvis, the laboured breathing that came at certain times, and quite a few more: all these things were gone.

I felt betrayed, - nay! - tricked. Just as Zeus had succeeded in tricking Epimetheus with Pandora, this gift too had been dirtied by the pain it had brought upon me. Though, in contrast where Pandora's box had brought all the bad things into the world, this gift to me, seemed of different nature.

I realised this as I stood up and I touched my hands to my own skin. The wrinkles too were gone, just as all the other things. And suddenly I understood some more.

Ah, how shameful of me! In my arrogance had I claimed to have understanding of the deep magicks of this our world, and yet so easily had I forgotten the knowledge of the alde days, of when the Assyrians of ancient Mesopotamia had called upon the sacred flames to cleanse away the effects of all that was bad and evil magicks, to battle with Maqlu and Shurpu the spells of evil! I had forgotten that indeed, fire was magic given form outside of some living and breathing body to contain it, to direct it. It was sorcery of the highest art; primal, raw but strong!

I felt raddled but before I could contemplate finding some reprieve from this state of exhaustion, a flash of bright light in the dark heralded the entrance of a silvery mirror before me, and in it I could see my face.

Keenly I was aware that the light never disappeared but these thoughts found little purchase as I gripped the familiar frame. For I saw I was young and all of my skin was pale as the purest ash, and all the marks of my personal Odyssey were gone.

My eyes never left my reflection as I stared into the mirror, and perhaps I should have been surprised when suddenly my reflection spoke to me, but I was tired and the memory of the recent pain still lingered fresh within me.

"Young idol, blessed by Phoînix, your heart is the power of the gods, your fibres are the bones of the earth, your lifeblood are the rivers running deep and wild. Your prayer has washed you clean, o' fireborn," it said, and as it spoke its skin glowed with gilden shine.

My breath hitched, for I saw that I too was painted with gilden light.

Was this real, I asked myself. Nausea was rising in me, as I contemplated if this was the touch of madness the shopman had been speaking of. I needed this to be real. I would make it real, no matter what. This would become my reality! And so, with all the conviction and force of mind I could muster, I stared defiantly at my reflection.

The sound of metal striking metal jostled me and I tore my gaze from my reflection's eyes, and suddenly the mirror's surface rippled with my reflection's movements, and the next thing I knew and saw was that my body copied its movement.

My arm extended, my fingers snipped once, and there then the gilden mask of my rebellion sailed into my hand. For one short moment I stared at it, and then, quite voluntarily and without any further hesitation, I placed it to my face.

I shouted aloud, with all my youth and renewed vigour, "THIS IS REAL!"

And my reflection applauded me as I felt myself being covered by silky shadows.

I knew what came next.

I closed my eyes as soon as I heard a small spark ignite the world around me, and when I opened them once more, I was clad in the blackest black, velvet and silk with crowns of fire stitched into the fabric by gilden thread and a broad girdle of leather hung around my waist.

"This is real," I said quietly, and my reflection bowed to me with a smile of pride.

Then the mirror rippled once more, and with the movement of its surface the reflection grew old, and with murky green eyes hidden underneath thick glasses, it said, "Of all creatures that walk and stalk upon this plane, nothing is weaker than a man who's lost himself. Go, idol! There is time for many words now. Incite yourself, rouse this old and weak man you have been! Burn yourself alive, and see him reborn!"

The mirror burst alive with flames and when I blinked underneath my mask, it was gone.

I turned around, and suddenly brightness beset me and I was blinded by the light that shone at me from all these spotlights mounted to the stage.

With care I walked my first steps in this young body. It felt strangely right. I was strong where before age had eaten away at my muscles, and yet these strong muscles were it, that made me feel unused to my own movement.

I did what I remembered the person on the stage to do. I walked to the clock where it hung, and I stared it for a few short moments. It didn't say me much, for I already knew what was going to happen and how it was going to happen.

This scene's play was fated, and both my hysteric idols were bound to it.

A whisper in my mind susurrated me the words I had to speak, and I repeated them aloud with proper pronunciation and emphasis.

Then I finally spotted myself sitting in the dark, bound tightly by the liquid shadows of my own mind.

When the spiel was nearing its completion and I stepped closer to the old Harry Potter with his panicked look, with his sweaty skin, and with his ragged breathing, I smiled under my mask.

Our eyes met, and I thought: this was a man after my own heart, a man who has been through bitter experiences and lived long and hard, a man who enjoyed the suffering for it was what would make him feel alive. It was a man, - nay! - a friend with an understanding, no less worth than I myself.

Then it was done. The crimson drape fell before my eyes and darkness consumed me where I saw Harry Potter writhe in agony at the flames licking his body.

I stood in absolute darkness. Wherever I looked, there was only blackness with its oppressive dark. And deep within me, some primal part of my consciousness roared at the mere idea of being at the whims of anything but my own power.

Considering Harry Potter's origin, it might had people surprised that I had lived not like a brute but as a fellow of virtue and knowledge, and through this virtue, I was bound closer to the destiny of suffering. And lo here I was, cast into the eternal darkness, burnt alive by divine fire to awaken with young flesh, new desires, all my life's past adrift like a dream, like vestiges of memory fading from time like vapour in the air, like ripples in a pond, soon to be gone.

I was not in the judeo-christian hell, this was not some literal journey through the pit, this was not some fearful event that required tremendous courage to journey through this chaos of a world pitched in to darkness, with all these terrible things that dwell in the very same, nay this was the grandest of all plays, on the greatest of all stages and I was playing its lead!

I would show this bottomless dark where I stood, who I was, who I would be. Behold me, I wished to scream into the dark. Behold me and what I can do!

Yes, I decided, I would decorate this sultry maze of hellish darkness with my gifts of magic.

With that idea firmly in my head, instinctively I made to grab for where I usually stored my wand, only to find the place empty.

It took a few seconds to remember, but then, as I realised that the Elder Wand must have had burned with me and now was no more than ashes upon the stage, I laughed aloud.

There, given wooden form, had burnt with my old flesh, avarice and envy, pride and the desire of man known to have naught care for anything but power!

It took quite some time for this bubbling mad laughter to subside, but when I had calmed, I, in the middle of my journey, spread my arms aloft and called upon the blessing bestowed upon me.

Courageously, touched by the ashes of Phoînix, I called upon the tantric force within me, for my will was might and my soul was bright.

Magic rested upon my fingertips; in every cell I could feel this charged feeling of cosmic force and it begged for me to release it, to quench the darkness whence ever it came from!

Then there was light, and magic made me its conductor.

Within moments the battle was afoot, the darkness of this realm against the brightness that shone from my skin.

To me, without repose, with the youth restored by fire, and with the knowledge of age, and with the felicity derived from wisdom, I stemmed my entire being against the dark with such a strength and indescribable intension, that the light of my soul shone its radiance onto the pit, touching all that was within my reach with its enchanting illumination.

Precious few seconds of bliss, like fleeting in the stillness of the vast cosmos I felt the entire existence of this darkness and the darkness felt me, and within this feeling I lifted myself beyond the limitation of my flesh and my light grew strong with its personal destiny, just as my felicity shone like a bright star against the dark.

I felt it in my veins, this magic of creation, spark of the cosmos, with its outlandish feeling of might; it made a fantastical monster within my human form, and its light broke away all the dark that lay before me.

Hesitating naught a moment, I walked ahead, and when I came upon a wooden sign stuck to the black floor, I read it without breaking my stride.

\- ACT II -  
ACCEDENCE

Suddenly a crimson drape appeared before and it rose with a swift motion to reveal the wooden stage I had burnt on before, had seen myself burn alive on.

There before me in two proper ordered rows stood decuman sized statues with the heads of rams and vultures. Their eyes were alive and glowered with gilden shine at me, and at the end of the path I saw a tall bonfire flaring with life.

"There you are. Finally. You took your time. I thought you might've forgotten old me."

A flared rippled through the light of my soul, and one second to the other it was gone like all the thoughts were gone from my mind, and their place took some meaningless tearing and clawing feeling of emptiness, cold and dark where before had been the light.

I hesitated, for I could not conjure up this important feeling of felicity from my soul.

I closed my eyes to center my being, to call upon all my memories that I knew to have, and yet, when I stared upon the the inner workings of my soul's being, there was nothing. There was vast emptiness and I felt impotent, empty.

This sudden deathly feeling of the grave had me feel torn, like an broken off ideal, like an idea that had turned out wrong, like a memory that had proven faulty, - wherefrom now had it come, this constriction, this wasting feeling of my personal hell? Why had I pass through this inferno once more? Where was all my courage gone to?

The empty pit of my being was burning and it was not the burning of the Phoînix that would have me reborn once more, nay, it was the burning of my memories, my soul, fighting for my life.

When I opened my eyes I stood at the fire, and next to me sat the old Harry Potter with his wrinkly and saggy skin, with his murky eyes and with a weariness in his being that was tangible to me.

Some confliction impression hushed through my features upon this my first encounter face to face, equal to my own self. Had I come to confront my Ego? Was this the raving mad monster in my guts, to despair me with its tormentive suggestions of self-worth?

"What took you so long?" He asked it with some odd tone, and some feelings of hurt reflected within him.

I dreaded to ask but the words spilled from my mouth, "Did you expect me then?"

"Every human expects their death, I'd think. Most simply don't know the when," said he with a tired grunt. And with a gesture of welcome I was beckoned to take seat.

"You think me your death?" I asked with shock.

"We've chosen to kill ourself, as there is no greater death for man than when he dies at his own whims. So, yes. I have expected you to come and kill me."

"I see," said I. "Is this then some metaphysical execution? A battle between the idols?"

Old Harry gandered at me, and with some deliberate slow motion extracted he the Elder Wand from the folds of his clothings. "Perhaps it is. Perhaps I am the consequence of yourself. Perhaps I am all that has burnt away and now is awaiting to be bedded to its rest. Perhaps I am all that you wish to leave behind when you step into the next great adventure. Perhaps I am facing our all final destiny, to wither away at behest of time. Who rightly can say they know?"

I thought of it for a short moment and I said, "I can't."

"Indeed, you can't. And neither can I. Does it matter, though?"

I shook my head with vehemence as I replied, "No it doesn't."

"We have lived life with confidence, have we not?"

I nodded. Oh yes, we had.

"We overcame the struggle and we reached high age. I say we have done good."

I smiled underneath my mask. "Yes, you did-, you did good Harry."

He shook his head and a few tears streamed down his face. "We did good. Maybe we could have done better, I know we have thought often enough of it, but all the same, what's done, is done. But I ask you, Harry. Was it all worth it?"

We sat there looking at each for just a short moment, and then I confirmed, "Yes!"

"What a lamentable thing then, that we both accept full responsibility for all these things we've done, for all these things we've seen happen. What a shame that we can't blame some divine being for our faults, for our failures! For this, all happening to us."

I laughed at his words and he grinned with tear stained cheeks.

"You'll then too accept your responsibility of ending me. This is the price you have to pay, Harry, for your control."

I didn't know how to reply and when I saw him turn his eyes to the flames before us, I too took to watching the fire.

"Has this fire then some symbolic meaning to remind me of something?"

Old Harry shook his head at that. "Nay, Harry. The masquerade of wounded souls you are thinking of has got their role yet."

I shuddered at his tone. He spoke so carelessly of an eternity spent at this fire.

Old Harry took off his glasses and rubbed tiredly at his eyes before he spoke again.

"Do you quake in fear of the dread of all dreads, or why are you shivering?"

I frowned. I was not willing to concede that he indeed spoke the truth and his remark had hit the nail on the head. Instead I chose to ask, "What now, Harry?"

"Now I'll tell you how we'll do it, if you are fine with it, Harry. Upon my word, we will stand and we will fight. Can you grant me this? My bones are weary, you can see it, I'd think and you ought to know it, but my heart and my magic are hearty for the suffering of all life's moments is about to find an end. Upon my word we shall spill ourselves into the sea of spells we can procure, and in the end you'll defeat me, and I'll fall to the irresistible sleep that comes to all people at the end, the sweetest of all, oblivion."

"If that's what you want." I said it quietly, quite unsure what else to offer.

I turned me head upon hearing a gasp and saw him staring at me with surprise on his face.

"It's what we want. Or have you changed your mind?"

I leaned forward onto my knees. Had I changed my mind about death now that I was young again? No, I would want to say, but in truth, I could not, for all these feelings that would have led me to judge so, were gone. I was empty of anything that declared me ripe for death and I could not find it in me to pass the judgement over my own death based on this emptiness.

"I don't know! Don't ask me to explain my actions! There never was a master plan!" I cried out with frustration.

Harry didn't reply.

I turned my head only to find him gone and when I returned to stare at the flames of the bonfire, it too was gone.

Suddenly above my head spotlights, one after another flared to life and all their lights were cast at one particular point.

There stood, on his own, in the middle of this eternal stage, a man.

Chains and attached to it a sign were lowered from above.

EMBRACE LIFE ALL YOU WHO DIE HERE

Thunder cracked distantly, and a rataplan of drums carried my steps.

As I came closer to the man, I saw that he wore a manteau made of the same blackest black that my suit was made of, and underneath it was in a very intricate manner woven a symbol of a long stick upright and its tip was shining with lifegiving light onto a dolman.

Then I saw his face and my steps faltered.

I smelt stale tobacco and a few other spices wafting towards me.

"Harry," he cried his welcome to me and stepped up. He took my hands with both his own and shook them fervently. "Harry! It does so good to see you once more! You look tired, though. Have you slept like I told you?"

I felt shivery underneath my suit, for the man wore the face of the shopman, and his voice was the same too.

"Who are you?" I ground out my question.

The man laughed. He then bowed deeply and swept one hand over the floor.

"I am Antioch of Peverell! But you I know by heart, Harry! You are known by far and wide as a man of rare qualities, and I would have known you in a row of hundreds upon hundreds with nary a glance, even if you hadn't stepped upon my humble shop."

"Indeed?"

He nodded with a smile, and suddenly he held the gilden mask in his hands.

I touched to my face, and indeed it was gone.

"How are you doing this," I asked with frustration once more heating my voice.

"Oh," said he with a laugh. "I am not doing anything, my good man! This is all you. This is your personal tower of Babel! Just look how well you have built it!"

Antioch threw the mask into the air and caught it with a chuckle on his lips. He then gestured to my hip where the leather girdle was fastened tightly to my body.

"But o' I see, you have no wand! There now, this is a matter easily corrected! I have quite a few in my shop for sale, and I dare say your promise is worth a bit more than just that bit of paper I gave you for it."

He threw the mask away quite carelessly and procured a small statue of black marble. I knew this piece. Then, with a quick legerdemain, it turned into a long, black wand with gilden runes etched into its length, a gilden eye painted to the handle.

"There! Now this is a wand worthy of you, Harry!"

He gave it to me and quite without my bidding did I accept it. Warily I fingered the surface, testing the beads, counting them. And by golly, it felt warm to the touch, much like the Elder Wand had felt to me. And with certainty I knew, that this wand had been made just for me, that this wand was destined to be in my hand.

Antioch eyed me. "Is this my craft then to your liking, Harry? Do you enjoy how it feels, finely attuned to you?"

I listened to him, and suddenly, behind us in the dark, far away from where the spotlights shone their light upon us, the Boy-Who-Lived stepped up against Voldemort, and red light sailed against green, and Voldemort failed, and he fell, and the Elder Wand flew through the air, and landed in Antioch's hand.

I blinked and the scene was gone like vapour in the wind.

"Yes. It is," I agreed.

"Now you have a wand, Harry. But can you use it still?"

I glared at him sullenly. "Why this mockery? Do you wish to test me? I have quite some reason to give you a good piece of my mind!"

Antioch laughed in a friendly way as he rolled his shoulders and then he said, "Shall we then see if your skills have rotten? Shall we see how you strike against a king of the insane? Shall we see if we can ride this night for all it's worth until the dawning of the day burns me to dust?"

And for the first time in decades I felt the dreaded resolve of my will crumble like rust when I laid my hands on the gates behind which the entrance of the realm of escalation and exhilaration lay, like one of these nightly horrors where the entrance to the graveyard was barred by a creaky gate of iron, and the hill would rise up in the dark, and the moon would stand proud above these graves upon the hill.

"We shall," said I.

Antioch nodded his agreement. He then flicked his wand and music began to play. It was a familiar track. The tune had been playing in his shop both times I had been to visit. And for shame, again I could not make out where from I knew its melody!

"A soundtrack for your insanity?" I asked this with scorn.

He laughed and walked a few steps into the distance. There he stopped, turned around and bowed to me.

"Rather a symphony for triumph, my good Harry. Are you prepared?"

I shook my head. "A question before we start."

"Oho! I can guess the question. But do go ahead. Ask your question, Harry. You ought to have all the answers you need before making your decision!"

"Why did you speak of destiny all the time? Why all this spiel?"

Antioch laughed without humour, and his mien turned sombre. "You got me there, Harry. But you know the answer already. It's quite simple, don't you think? You ought to know the answer. I have told you before. Was that it? Well then. Are you ready now?"

I nodded my agreement. I have had enough of all of this. I wanted this fight, I wanted to let go, to fight and rage and feel alive. I wanted to give in to all this madness. Furiousis, here I come, I wanted to cry.

"On three then," said Antioch, and with a quick motion he threw away his manteau.

And I counted, "One."

Antioch rolled his sleeves up and smiled knowingly at my glare.

"Two," he said.

The silence stretched thin.

"Three," we cried together, and the duel was afoot!

I whipped my wand at him, and he did the same to me.

Golden geysirs of fire erupted from the wooden tips, gleaming and streaming towards each other with torrents of unending heat and flames, much like the Dragon's flame carried magic, this magic carried Dragon's flame, and it turned to cinder the very air.

It burned away all the oxygen and it made me sweat with exhaustion. And still, I kept my wand aloft with ease, whipping and flèche when the chance presented itself!

The hell we summoned from the depths of our minds was nothing you could consider to be mortal magic, much like any a Witch or Wizard who found themselves wielding this Stick of Ages entranced by addicting nature of power it allowed them to wield.

No, in this very moment, I felt myself immortal. I felt alive. Yes, there was no other word I could lend chance to describe this sum of feelings in myself, I felt alive, alive, alive! More so than I ever have felt before!

I heard the laughter of Antioch and I could not prevent myself from enjoying the sound of it. I joined him, and together we laughed against the dark, in the shine of our personal hell, and then, in one of those rare moments of clarity that come when you are fighting for all of your existence, for your survival, for life, where time stretches thin, to its utmost limits, where you perceive all that is in this one short moment, we saw each other through a small gap that a receding flame had granted us.

And I saw: Antioch was as much alight with the glamour of heated battle lust as I found myself enjoying this moment of terror where one second to the other all could be ripped from my hands.

I fought this moment for my life, and I was flooded by this knowledge like an addict on his last high before all was over with the golden shot!

Then the moment was over, the fire was snuffed out and the air smelt of ashes.

Antioch gave as good as he took, and nary a moment went by without my life being close to its end.

All of a sudden stood before me two giants made from marble and glass, and with a cry of force I dilapidated their existence to sand.

Antioch, within the domain of his personal arts of the arcane turned the sand to obsidian, and within a heartbeat sicced its glowing pieces on me.

I cared little for his spiel of conjurer's tricks. With a mighty swing of my new wand all the pitchstones turned to pumice powder and erupted in red lightning of the likes of some volcanic tempest around my adversary.

Our fight continued until a thunder rocketed through the silence that came quite surprisingly when I found Antioch staring at me with clear fascination on his face.

I saw him stroking the thin mustache upon his lip as he gandered at me. And there I saw my chance to make an end of it: I grasped the wand with both my hands and raised it above my head.

"Prepare yourself," I cried, and to my shock Antioch bowed his head politely at me. It seemed some odd courtesy offered in this state of war we found ourselves in, where my wand was yet still in the air, ready to unleash some untold terror upon him.

I abused my mind for all the magic I could wield, and with force I slashed the wand down to point at Antioch before me, and with it all the anger I felt at him too went into my spell.

I visualised myself enveloped in a cool cocoon, as was proper when invoking the powers of godly magic. I visualised myself cocooned with the waters of Enlil, rising from feet to head, and as I was encompassed by this feeling of magic, I delivered the invocation to sprout forth my magic into the world.

The seed born from my will was planted, and it would grow into a forest of my own making.

Immediately I raised my wand once more and, then, with the next rumble of thunder, oaken trees sprouted from the ground, encircling Antioch, and still he smiled with bemused anticipation his brazen smile.

My wand was still in the air, and the barely visible string of pure magic that was bursting out of it was raging skyward, and the mirage of heat that rose with it was playing me scenes of all the fights I had been in with.

Then, one second to the other, as if it had been creeping up on me, like a wedge driven into the sky, a bursting sound much like a sonic boom tumbled over us and then it broke in an explosion. It rolled over us, droning and grating in as much a low bass frequency as it was shaking the world with its might.

I laughed in delirium as I smelled saccinit and myrrh, and Antioch laughed with me.

I swore this spell to be a sacrifice to the storm gods, for ozone was in the air, and I could not help but sniff it with deep breaths. I grinned widely. What a taste!

Electric on my tongue could I feel the air charged with magic.

Thunder rumbled not once but many times in short succession, and when I glanced at Antioch, I saw him putting away his wand, I saw him clapping politely at me and my display of godly magic.

His faces indeed was overjoyed with what he saw, I thought.

I startled. Did he not realise that he needed to defend himself to survive the spell I had conjured above our heads? I knew there was no time to warn him. All I could do was stare, and see and witness.

Then it came, the first of many, wide and broad and thick and so hot as it was white,- a thousands of arms and branches twisting and coiling, and then the next, and the next and a couple of dozens or more. I could not count as I stared wide-eyed and in desperation at the raw energy that thundered down at the still smiling Antioch.

It was all-defying power, something so fierce and wild that it should have torn the world open ant let it burst alight in flames, dragging chariots of fire through the sky until all of it was burnt and nothing left but ashes raining down on me, yet nothing of this sort happened when in a fusillade lightning strike after lightning strike surged from the blackest heavens down into the body of Antioch.

Each strike was accompanied by his laughter, and it grew louder and louder until all the magic was done and gone.

His laughter rang with echoes on this stage when it was over.

I shuddered with exhaustion, but when Antioch waved at me quite merrily and with a cheerful smile upon his lips, and without care for the duel we had fought, for the magic we had wrought from our sticks, all the emptiness I had felt was gone and in its place was warmth once more. All my being was warm and I felt relieved to see still upright, and I felt relieved that I was still alive. I had forgotten how to feel this feeling and now it was back and I was alive!

I dropped my wand and walked over to him.

The spotlights followed me these very few steps I had to walk to cover the distance to the man that had created the wand I wielded just now against him.

"Well fought, Harry Potter," cried Antioch with pure joy on his face. "Oh I was wrong, I was wrong. I admit it now. You are no wolf, you are no Akela! You are not ready yet to lie down to your final rest, are you? You wish to fight for your life, don't you? You long for the fight of fights! You are like the mighty Phoînix with his tail of seven nimbuses of light and you are ready to burst alight with life once more! Fret not, oh Harry, you'll have your chance to live properly yet. I see it now, I should have seen it before. I bow before you, o' mighty Harry!"

Then he threw away the Elder Wand. It caught fire the second it left his hand and disappeared in a swirl of ashes in the dark.

He bowed to me with a sad smile. Then his voice grew sombre and he said, "Stodgy reality beckons, Harry. You'll understand soon why this all was necessary. I wish you good health Harry for all these days of your life, and I wish your idol cheerful dreams for when he sleeps his well earned eternal sleep. And I beg you to stay away from all of his and to never return, and I grant myself this wish in your stead, and I take this mask as my price for it. You have made me a promise, after all."

And with that Antioch held the mask he had thrown away before, the mask I had wished to die with, and he put it on his face, and there he was gilden eyes, with gilden face and gilden smile.

Then to my indescribable astonishment I observed Antioch falling away, and without any form of transition that would allow to make a mockery out of magic, did Old Harry Potter appear before me, and with a wistful smile, and with some penetrating wet eyes did he pierce my heart.

"So you have decided, Harry."

I nodded and quietly I said, "I guess I have."

Old Harry Potter shook his head and he cried tears of relief.

"Kill me then, Harry Potter, if you truly feel no remorse, no guilt, no traitorous thoughts over my death! Cut me, slice me, dice me, kill me if you truly are not just pretending, if your felicity is not just some execrable ideal! End me, if all your holding up, all your invoked wisdom truly has brought you transcendence, and never again remember me! Never again imagine me, for I am an idol, Harry! And idols have no place but within religion. I am a reminder, and you, seem to have no need for it anymore!"

I, without further distinction, without leaving some more time to overthink, declared myself alive and him dead.

I embraced him and I heard him breath his last.

Then it was done. Old Harry Potter lay there, a serene smile upon his lips. His hands were folded upon his chest and clasped between his hands laid the mask.

The drape fell and the spotlights went out.

I cared nothing for it. I could not reflect on this or that, I could not reflect on the wickedness of this situation and all the weirdness it was laden with. There was no time to examine these events, to measure them against my mind and all I knew. And there was no stopping these things, with their enthusiasm to topple all I thought secured within my mind.

My brain was paralysed by some unfathomable daze.

Then a spotlight sprang to life and before me a sign fell from the sky.

\- ACT III -  
REQUIEM

Then the drape rose, and I could not move my eyes from where they stared ahead.

It was a bright, blindingly white scene, with no other colour adorning the background as the very white that my eyes felt hurt my understanding of how bright a day should be.

Rain fell from the white sky, and suddenly, as I stepped into the scene, all the white turned gray and thunder cracked in the distance.

There then I saw it. We were upon the stage once more, and there before me, propped up on white marble was prepared a wooden casket made from some fine white elder wood with its sleek oiled surface. In it lay a body with its arms folded at the chest, and in the hands it bore a picture of the Boy-Who-Lived, adorning around it were placed white flowers of the most pristine quality.

I peered closer at it, and saw that the flowers were lilies. And there I too saw the mask which I had seen just moments before first on Antioch's face and then resting on my dead body.

Alongside the casket sat in rows upon rows faceless people wearing masks of people I had known throughout my life, weeping sorrow painted onto their wretched façades.

There were Molly and Arthur Weasley with Ginny and George, Fred, Bill together with Fleur, Charlie and Percy too and there were Hermione and Ron next to each other with their hands clasped together, and there were Luna and Neville too. I saw Viktor Krum, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Teddy Lupin with his parents, and I saw Hagrid with Madame Maxime and behind them sat Grawp with his knees up high to his chest.

Next, along the other side of the coffin were Barnabas Deverill, Sarolf the Unworthy, Mykew Gregorovitch the Wandmaker, Draco Malfoy the Ferret, Emeric Egbert, Antioch of Peverell, Albus Dumbledore and the others too. And they all smiled the brazen smiles of Kings of Insanity as they stared first at me, from where I gandered at them, and then at the coffin.

Then a bell chimed and Antioch walked to the podium before the coffin.

He coughed loudly and as silence descended upon the people, he pulled out a thin blue pamphlet from his dolman.

He smiled at me as he, with a quick gesture smoothed down his mustache.

Then he began to speak. And he said with a sombre tone, "We have gathered here today to bid farewell to Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Rebell, Suicide! Rise now, fellow citizens of this Kingdom of the Insane, and speak your words of farewell. And then we shall laugh for He who's about to depart to his next great adventure!"

I ignored the short eulogies they held, one after another as I stumbled to the coffin. I stared at my own body, with its gaunt features, wrinkly and saggy skin, closed eyes, and the gilden mask resting on my chest.

I swallowed hard, and just as I wanted to reach out with a hand I suddenly found missing, my friends stepped up to the coffin, one after another.

They all gandered down at my cold and dead body with a wretched smile painted to the face.

With careless gestures they threw in their lot, a coin or two, a flower, some did me some earth on my head, and a few wished me a well-earned rest. Some others wished me pain, and shame and a few more said nothing of the sort when they threw me their last looks before they turned away to forget who I had become.

Then came the turn of the band of madmen, Grindelwald and Deverill, Gregorovitch, Sarolf, Malfoy and all the others, and they stepped up to my coffin in a group and one after another did they touch their fingers to the wand that adorned my body.

Gellert Grindelwald with his blonde hairs, leaned closer and he whispered not all that quietly to me, "Congratulations Harry Potter, you like us, are now one of the insane. Are you proud of yourself? Oh what a question, of course you are!"

I stared at them and they too stared at me, and where I was confused and my face was slack, they were fighting not to laugh at me.

"We salute thee, maddest of us all!"

They bowed. Then they disappeared, one after another while touching to the Elder Wand and the wand too disappeared with them.

At last came the turn of Albus Dumbledore.

He stepped up to the coffin and he bend to my body. He kissed my forehead with a gentle brush of his lips, and with a smile he whispered, "Back again, Harry?"

The rain stopped, a rainbow crawled through the gray sky and suddenly I lay in the casket, and I stared up at Dumbledore, as much as he stared down at me, and all the people at my funeral erupted in laughter. They sprang up from their seats, hands rising up to clap their thunderous applause. I sat up, and I felt the mask roll into my hands.

Then the grand drape fell behind me, and the stage was empty save for a small sign before my coffin.

FIN

And as the last spotlight blinked out, the darkness returned to my vision.

When I came to me again, I was the only source of light filling the dark.

I found myself standing in front of the remains of coals that once had been a bonfire, and around it nothing of life could be found except for Antioch Peverell.

He had been waiting for me, and that I was knew with surety.

He welcomed me with a clap to my shoulder and a gentle smile on his lips.

Then he stepped back and applauded me loudly but slowly, before he bowed his head to me.

"A good show, well done Harry. I knew you were the perfect choice for this role."

Then he moved his hand and took of a mask I had until then not noticed him wearing, and he revealed himself to be Albus Dumbledore, and he laughed merrily upon seeing the look on my face.

"The perfect choice, much like I said. As if possessed by a manmade god!" He said with pride, and he threw the mask away and suddenly he wore purple robes yet again, and a tall pointy hat and spectacles on his nose too. The brown eyes morphed to blue, and then to gold. He smiled a brazen smile and asked then forthwith, "Are you in control now, o' mighty Master? Has the choice been to your liking?"

And suddenly I remembered where from I knew the melody of the music that had played in Antioch's shop. And I found I understood it all; I understood that I had lost my marbles, I understood that I had chosen my own reality and I had defended it against myself and all these treacherous thoughts that had lingered within me. And I knew that I had mastered my own death and all that was laying ahead of me was as uncertain as all the other thing that were fated within human life.

I smiled the brazen smile of a man worth his salt, of a man who's done right by himself, and I said, "I've compromised, Sir."

The light of my soul and all the felicity within shone through my skin with its gilden light, and I barked my own laughter into the dark, and Dumbledore laughed with me, and where I laughed away all that I once had lived for, where I laughed to heal myself from this abuse of my mind, Dumbledore laughed with me for his very own reasons, for he knew that I had come to understand it all and he embraced my understanding with me.

I shook my head, tears of regret, happiness and anticipation rolling down my cheeks.

With a grin Dumbledore wiped away the tears from my face and then with a small cloud of glitter exploding above his open palm he presented me the black marble statue of Schnitter.

I took it. Immediately it transformed into the black wand I was gifted before, and I placed it in the sling of the dark leather girdle that I wore above the suit of of the Grande Finale, with its gilden buttons, and gilden crowns and the symbol of a cloak, a wand and a stone appearing in its middle.

"Shall we traverse the world once more, Harry or are you now grown tired and weary at last? Shall we depart into the dawn of tomorrow? Or do you wish to cancel the next grand play that lays ahead of us? Do you wish to wear this suit and its role, or do you wish to end it all with one final bow to the audience?"

I rolled back and forth on the balls on my feet while humming as if in thought, and finally I resolved myself to a decision and with humour I announced, "Höchste Zeit aufzusteh'n!"

Dumbledore clapped his hands happily. He transformed into a hound twice the height of myself with the blackest fur, one gilden eye in the centre of his head, and together, without much care for when or where we would arrive, left we behind the empty and burnt out pit of my soul and we walked as equals into the dawning light of the coming day.

And just as we were about to jump off the edge where the stage ended, the hound raised its head. It glanced over its shoulder, and it called with an inhuman voice, "Drape, please," and the drape fell with us jumping over the edge.

The light went out, and that was that.

* * *

A/N:

Eine Heerschar von Hexen zum Aderlass geprügelt für die Reinheit des Blutes [...], - A host of witches beaten until they were bleeding for the purity of blood [...] (Part of the lyrics of Konstantin Wecker's Song Hexeneinmaleins.)

Immer noch werden Hexen verbrannt auf den Scheitern der Ideologie, irgendwer ist immer der Böse im Land - Still 'witches' are being burnt on the stakes of ideology, someone's always the bad guy (Part of the lyrics of Konstantin Wecker's Song Hexeneinmaleins.)

Freudenfeuer - (pun) can translate to bonfire, but literally means (Fire to celebrate happiness)

DU MUSST VERSTEHN! [...] - Witches-One-Times-One, (Hexeneinmaleins) of Goethe's Faust. A mathemagical spell meant to de-age Faust.

Höchste Zeit aufzusteh'n - High time to wake/get up (Part of the lyrics of Konstantin Wecker's Song Hexeneinmaleins.)


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